


Love Is Like A Sin, My Love

by frais



Series: Clarity [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Barebacking, Choking, Confusion, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Infidelity, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Off-screen death, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 22:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3266447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frais/pseuds/frais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective AU, but not really. Patrick takes the job in a hope that he'll forget everything that happened two months ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You know when you're writing one thing, but then another takes over your brain... that's what this is.  
> This is also 80% done so figured I could start posting.  
> The major character death has already happened at the start of this, but I figured it's better to tag that anyway.

Patrick's really regretting the decision to move into his brother's house by the start of his third week there. It's temporary; at least until he gets the house in Wisconsin sold, but every day he's here is another one he deeply regrets. It's better than being at his mom's house, which is maybe only a step up from still being in Wisconsin. He just wants to be anywhere else but here; anywhere else but there.

“Mom said you tried to burn the house down,” Kevin says, which is maybe the same thing he's said every day since Patrick's impromptu arrival.

“I was burning the bed, not the house. Some clothes too, but I did it in the backyard,” Patrick says, staring down at another bowl of food his sister-in-law has made for him; it's all people seem to do for him now. Today it's mac and cheese with slices of bacon peeping through the creamy sauce. Patrick's been vegetarian for the past few years and it still feels like a betrayal to try it. He slides the pink meat off his fork and to the side of his plate. 

“That seems a little harsh, Rick.” Kevin's sigh is loud and tired, like this isn't what he wants to be doing either. Patrick guesses he probably has better things to do than babysit his kid brother, but it's not like Patrick wants him here either. 

“Why? He didn't need that shit anymore and I was tired of looking at it.” Patrick takes another mouthful of his meal, but it congeals in his mouth and so he spits it back out onto the dish. He used to be polite about shit like this, but he doesn't know how anymore. He's lost the ability to care in recent weeks.

“That's disgusting, Patrick.” Kevin crosses his arms over his stomach looking more and more like their dad every year. It freaks Patrick out more than anything else, that his brother is aging into some mutated form of their father. “Look, maybe you should see someone.”

“I did see someone, but then I stopped.” Patrick rubs at his forehead. His skin always itches these days, like it's too tight for him. He's never been comfortable in his own skin, but it's exacerbated now. “Oh hey, did I tell you the FBI keep calling me?”

Kevin face pales and he leans over in alarm, fingers clutching at Patrick's wrist. “Jesus, what've you done?”

“ _Nothing_. They just want to hire me. You know, even in death, Andy would kill me if I worked for them, so I'm trying to stay away.” Patrick licks his lips, trying to understand why it's so hard to say his name aloud. It goes around his head all day long, but the moment he spits it from his teeth he feels a sickness churning his stomach. “I've had a few job offers.”

“In Illinois?” Kevin asks, looking grateful for the subject change. His family aren't used to him like this, he guesses. Patrick's not used to himself being this way, either. It's a change for everyone, and so far no one's gotten used to it.

“Yup,” Patrick says. He looks down at the food in front of him and then up at his brother and mostly, he just wants to disappear.

 

The next day Patrick heads out into the city and puts his name down onto the lease of the first apartment he looks at. It smells fusty and there's mold fanning out across one of the walls in the living room, but anything's better than being around his family, eating another plate of pity pasta and ignoring their glances of concern.

Patrick can afford the place for now, and he's had a few emails about jobs. He opens the first one without looking into the details, sees that it's from the Chicago homicide department about a string of murders. It's better than the FBI, so he agrees to a meeting a few days later.

He even goes to the animal shelter and lands himself with a fluffy Pomeranian called Penny. She's small and she's blonde and so Patrick automatically feels a kind of solidarity with her. When he attempts to smile at her she doesn't bark or squirm away so he's thinking they'll get along alright. 

 

“I'm moving into my own place tomorrow,” Patrick says when he's back at his brother's that night with Penny. Kevin stares up from the couch at Patrick, eyes sliding to Penny bunched up against Patrick's chest.

“What? Why?” He lowers his questioning tone when he looks at the dog warily. “Patrick, whose dog is that?”

“She's my dog. My therapist said that dogs can help you get over the grief. So... I'm getting over it. And I'm moving into the city tomorrow and I've taking on a case for the Chicago P.D. I have to move on at some point, right?” Patrick licks his lips, holding Penny tighter in his arms and trying not to feel guilty when he sees the way Kevin looks at a complete loss. Patrick's the baby in the family, and he's always been coddled, but it's suffocating him now. 

“I don't know if you should be on your own right now, but I respect your decision.” Kevin folds a hand over his face and he looks tired and suddenly a lot older than Patrick remembers. He knows that's mostly his fault too and he's about to apologize when his brother looks up again. “Please, put the damn dog down though. Put the dog down and come eat dinner, at least.”

“I can't eat another plate of pasta, Kevin,” Patrick says quietly, he doesn't think his body will allow it. “You can't make me.”

“Well your luck's in; it's a veggie casserole.” Patrick ate nothing but casserole the month after Andy died, but he doesn't want to be a dick, not tonight. He doesn't plan on coming back here for a while so he just smiles tightly and nods his head.

 

Kevin helps Patrick move, which means he holds the dog on the ride over to the new apartment. Patrick left most of his stuff in Wisconsin, either burned in the backyard or left where it was, but he has a holdall and a bag of clothes. Maybe he'll go shopping for furniture at some point, but not today; not this week.

“Are you sure you'll be alright on your own?” Kevin asks when they're in the apartment. It's not so bad with the lights off, hiding the mold and so far his neighbors don't seem loud. It came furnished too, so it's not a completely empty box. Patrick wouldn't want Kevin worrying too much, not anymore than he has to. 

“We'll be fine.” Patrick lifts his arm and hugs his brother tight and tries to fight away the feelings that make him ache all the time. There's a heavy wet weight on his chest and he can't seem to shift it.

“Promise you won't start anymore fires,” Kevin says, but Patrick rolls his eyes because it wasn't like that. He was just tired of sitting in a house that held too many memories; he was angry and he was upset and he just wanted to get rid of it. He didn't think it'd cause the drama that it did.

“Cross my heart.” Patrick winks and he knows Kevin's reluctant, but Patrick can't be with people anymore. He needs to be alone with head. Just for a little while. 

Patrick cries when Kevin leaves, because he thinks maybe he's made a mistake. Being alone is _horrible_ , far worse than being with people that know, but that's the way it's going to be now. After a while he just cleans his face up, drinks enough whiskey to get himself buzzed and then goes to the local stores for some cleaning products. 

Patrick scrubs the kitchen floor with bleach, until it burns his lungs and his nail beds bleed. He's been at enough crime scenes to know the smell of a bad clean up and it reminds him of that; of work. It fills his head with different scenes and different sensations and he likes that, likes thinking about different kinds of death as he lays face down on the kitchen floor.

Eventually he gets up and decides to paint one wall in the living room a grayish teal that he picked up at the hardware store. He forgets to tape the ceiling and wood flooring so he gets splashes of paint on both. It's okay though, he's mostly sober with a killer headache by the end of it, but it's alright. 

He feeds Penny and showers and then pulls on one of Andy's shirts from his case. It doesn't smell like him or anything, but it was his and Patrick remembers him in it, remembers coming home from work and seeing Andy clearing the backyard out in it. The way he smiled at Patrick, hand over his eyes, shielding them from the sun as he beckoned Patrick forward.

Patrick rolls onto his stomach and screams into his pillow until the memories fade from his mind. 

 

“Today we are normal,” Patrick says into the mirror a few days later. He's dressed smartish; tight jeans, shirt under a cardigan. He hopes the hat and glasses hide the fact that he still looks like a teenager, because he hates those jokes; he's had a lifetime of those jokes and stupid cops are always the fucking worst. He fixes his glasses and looks down at Penny staring up at him. 

“Girl, I can't take you to work. I need to impress,” he says to her quietly, but then decides, actually, maybe he can. This is midway through a case, there's no crime scene to contaminate and she's good – at least, so far she's been good. Patrick's not charming, but he has a face that people seem to like; if he smiles and acts shy he usually gets what he wants. “Okay, you can come to work. But first let's practice our happy faces.”

Penny yaps in response and Patrick turns back to the mirror. He smiles, something that always used to come easy for him, but now looks like a gaping sore on his face. He tries it again, feet twitching nervously. He hears Andy's voice in his head, calming him down like he always did when Patrick had a new case. It just makes him sadder now, so he has to shake the voices away.

“We are normal and we are happy, alright? Don't go crying to the guys about us. We don't want anyone knowing,” He tells her, feeling a little more soothed when she nuzzles her wet black nose to his cheek.

 

It takes a bit of awkward explaining to get his way through security with Penny at the station. But he smiles nervously; his youthful looks and practiced wide-eyes earn him sympathy from the front desk, and he's not left waiting long.

“Mr Stump?” A man with thick curls and a friendly smile lumbers over. He holds his hand out and Patrick shakes it, catching the way the man glances down to Patrick's new dog. “Uh, dogs aren't permitted.”

"She comes with me, I'm afraid. No dog, no profile." Patrick shrugs his shoulder, tapping his shoes as he waits for the man's answer. 

“Is she housebroken?” the guy asks, and well, Patrick doesn't know. She hasn't pissed in the apartment so far, but it's not been a week yet.

“Absolutely.” Patrick smiles, pushes his glasses up his nose and sees the guy relax. 

“Alright then. She can stay for now. We're pretty desperate for you to get working on this case.” Patrick follows him through the dated office, answering perfunctory questions about how long he's been down here and whether he's a native and whether he has any idea of the case. Patrick bullshits all the answers, keeping them quiet and polite.

The man continues to talk, lazy but amiably and Patrick likes his tone. He wishes he could come across as something other than awkwardly geeky. “My partner's running it, he's the one that called for a profiler. It's his first time heading up an investigation, so there's a lot of pressure on him. We haven't officially confirmed that it's a probable serial killer yet.”

“You don't think it is?” Patrick asks, trying to slide back into work mode. He hasn't had a case since Andy died, but he's desperate to get his mind out of his head. He reads cases sometimes; looks at his old files and tries to find more patterns in the behaviors and movements, just for next time; so he can get there faster. It takes his mind off everything else flickering inside his head.

“We need you to confirm for sure. There's no dead-set evidence, but we've picked up some patterns,” the man says, moving his hand to stroke between Penny's ears. She flicks them and moves her mouth to leave a few licks against his knuckles.

“DNA?” Patrick asks, feeling that rush of nerves when they hit the central office. There's not a big team by the looks of it, not like on some of the really big cases that Patrick worked when he was in Wisconsin, but he's not good around groups of people. 

He realizes now that bringing his dog is a terrible kind of first impression, but he's forgotten that other people's opinions matter these days, and that maybe it's disrespectful to the families that lost someone. Patrick looks down, not listening to what's being said to him and strokes Penny between the ears.

“Should I have left my dog at home?” he asks quietly, and hears the guy stop talking and hum hesitantly.

“I mean, _probably_ , but dogs are my buddies so I don't give a shit.”

“I got her from the shelter a few days ago, and I just moved to a new place; it felt kinda dickish to leave her home alone. But yeah, sorry. Have you cross-matched any DNA?” Patrick looks up and sees the poor man try to follow his train of thought. It mostly makes him go a little cross-eyed.

“Last body was clean, fingerprints wiped. There were a few partial fingerprints lifted from the second scene, but they didn't match anyone on file. We just need you to rule it out.”

“Rule it out?” Patrick says, because he's not quite back in the zone yet. When he sees the man's blue eyes bulge in confusion, Patrick gets it. 'You don't want serial killer hysteria hitting the city."

“That's it. Hey, I forgot to introduce myself, I'm Joe.” He holds his hand out and Patrick takes it in his own. “Detective Trohman if you wanna get fancy.”

“Patrick Stump.” Patrick smiles wide, forcing it to meet his eyes. “So you're not running this case?”

“My partner is. He's around here somewhere. Yo Wentz!” Patrick jumps back at the shout and the way everyone in the room suddenly looks to him. His stomach flips and he clutches at Penny a little too harsh before kissing her forehead in apology. 

Patrick looks on as a man with terrible bleached hair comes tumbling out of an office. 'Who's the kid with the dog?"

'Patrick Stump. The criminal profiler you requested. I got your email.” Patrick holds his hand out, watching as _Wentz_ looks Patrick up and then down, eyes lingering for a little too long over Patrick's thighs. 

Eventually his eyes reach a more approachable level and he says, “Look, no offense, but I can't have a trainee on this case. You're what-- twenty?”

“Thirty,” Patrick says, and watches them both give him a double look. “Not long in career terms, no, but I've been working my ass off in Wisconsin the last few years on some heavy cases. I worked on the Ohio farm murders a few years ago, the twin killings last year. I'm more than qualified to decide whether this most recent murder is linked to a closed investigation.”

“Alright, alright,” Pete raises his arms and Patrick thinks if Pete's going to judge-- well, so is he. 'I'm Pete. Pete Wentz.”

"You don't look suitably dressed to be running a murder investigation, Pete Wentz. You look like you're headed to a gig."

“Life is one big gig, Stump,” Pete says, and maybe on someone else it'd sound cool, but mostly Patrick just thinks it's a load of shit. “At least I didn't bring my dog to work.”

“Sorry about that.” Patrick bites his lip and looks up at Joe, who mostly looks confused about the conversation he's just witnessed. “Who's going to fill me in?”

Patrick spends the next hour in Pete's office being told the story. Four days ago Lenny Kluke was found asphyxiated in his own apartment by his roommate. There'd been no break-in, nothing disturbed or taken from the room.

“Could be a sex game gone wrong,” Patrick says, but Pete shakes his head, scratching at his hairline.

“A search of his bedroom only brought out real vanilla porn, his laptop the same. Not even a pair of fluffy handcuffs.” Pete winks dirtily, but Patrick just blinks that comment away.

“Sexual assault?” Patrick pushes the stack of paper away, and looks to Pete instead, trying a different route. He prefers direct information and if Wentz worked this case from the scene, he'll have all the information he'll need. The coroner reports notwithstanding.

“Body was clean. Dude was bisexual according to his parents, his porn collection backs that up. He was wearing a gold crucifix around his neck and there were graze marks on the back of his neck from where it was tugged from his body, but nothing to suggest he'd been attacked that way.” Pete leans over and presses lightly at the top of Patrick's spine, showing where the abrasions were.

“Interesting,” Patrick says, and he makes a note of that for his own record. “So it could've been taken as a trophy, or maybe as a religious statement. You got that already, right?"

“Yeah, we figured that much.” Patrick _hears_ the eye roll Pete gives him, but he doesn't care. He doesn't need to make friends, he never works with the same department for long, it's just a case by case basis these days. “The deaths we're linking are all asphyxiation, all white males under the age of twenty-five."

“Alright, well I want all of those files made available to me. That's not a lot to go on, it's not a rare method of killing.” Patrick looks up seriously. It's hardly anything to go on, but this is a job for now, and Patrick wants to see it through.

“My boss says the same, but these are all kids, all strangled with a belt in their own homes. No break-ins reported. So either they all knew the person that did it, or they're letting a stranger into their home for no reason.” Pete leans back, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't look anything like a cop; not like one Patrick's ever worked with, but he likes that. He's looking for a fresh start, and maybe this is a chance for it to happen.

“Are you an instinctual cop?” Patrick asks when he realizes he hasn't been listening to Pete for a while. Even though Wentz looks like a douche, in the past hour of talking to him, Patrick figures he's actually pretty thorough at his job. Patrick's not used to thorough, just idiots.

“I fight a daily battle between my head and my gut, but yeah, I'm pretty instinctual. I've had a few disciplinaries because of some the shit I've done because I'd rather just do what I need to get the job done and deal with the paperwork after.” Pete shrugs, not looking all that ashamed, but Patrick knows this career well enough. There's no promotions for the guys that take the chances; it's all about playing the game. Pete's on a losing battle if that's his outlook.

“You're a rogue detective, then. I like that.” Patrick smiles and he's not happy, but having something to focus on and a decent team to work with will help. “Just so you know; I'm licensed to carry a weapon, but I'm not carrying a weapon, I won't carry a weapon and you can't fucking make me carry a weapon. It's an area of contention during most of the jobs I work.”

Pete hesitates, like it's gonna be an area of contention for him too. “What if I need back up?”

“I'm not your fucking partner. I passed the test, but the last time I went to the range I like skimmed the target's shoulder. It's the one area I'm really shit at, and honestly, I think it's the one area that's currently keeping the FBI off my back.” Patrick thinks back to how he pretty much failed the exam when he was forced to take it. Firearms aren't his strong point, but he's never really needed to use one before. Andy definitely didn't want him to have one, but he always said that was for his own safety. Patrick's always been kinda clumsy, adding a gun to the mix just seemed like a terrible idea.

“The FBI want you? I fucking hate them, man. They steal all the best cases and then fuck them up even more than I would.” Pete's comment cuts through Patrick's thoughts and he looks up at the detective with a small smile.

“Yup, that's pretty much my opinion.” Patrick smiles and then looks down at the files. “Can you get me access to all the victims' forensic records?”

“Sure,” Pete says, rising from his seat. He's a short dude, maybe Andy's height, and it's oddly comforting. “Thanks for doing this, man, but seriously. If you come out on a scene you're holstering up with the rest of us.”

“Hmm.” Patrick decides to ignore that last comment. He's not always been good at following rules either, and he's always worked in a bigger team that wasn't dependent on him taking an active part in showdowns. That's not the life Patrick's built for.

Patrick works for three hours straight, taking notes down directly from the Kluke case. The basics; age, job and status match up with the three other victims; white males between 18 and 25, middle class and upwards. Aside from Kluke, who grew up Catholic, they all lived fairly secular lives. These are small details, but they're enough for Patrick to try and link.

“It's definitely the same killer, he's just got better at it,” Patrick says, heading into Pete's office. “There's too many coincidences going on, but I can't pinpoint actual proof yet. This is a religiously motivated attack, but I think it's coming from someone that at the very least practices a warped form of Catholicism. There's no evidence of sexual assault with any of the victims and yet they all to varying degrees had sexual experiences or interest in the same sex, so that's something we need to work on. He's gonna hit again soon, so we need to start working quick.”

Pete blinks at him when Patrick looks up from his notes. “You got all that in a few hours?”

“Uh-huh. I've got some more threads I want to trace, and I want a list of any recent friendships Kluke formed in the past few weeks. If you could get his roommate in, I'd like to talk to them.”

“You're good,” Pete says, “I've got guys out there still following up the same lead since the moment you walked in with your goddamn dog.”

Patrick suddenly remembers that he's a dog owner and his eyebrows raise. “Shit, where is Penny?”

“With Joe.” Pete waves a dismissive hand, leaning his elbows onto his desk. “So, like. My instincts were good, right?”

“Yeah, but you don't need me to tell you that. How you handling media?” Patrick takes a seat at Pete's desk and looks briefly at the photos surrounding it. He's surprised to see photos of Pete with two small children, another of a pretty woman on his arm. Patrick's fairly certain Pete had been looking at him with lascivious intention earlier, but he looks like a family man here. Patrick's not getting involved. 

“They don't know shit yet, I don't know how long we can keep something like this a secret though. There's a killer out there, the media have a duty to report it.” Pete scratches at his jawline, the dark stubble making a mockery of the bleached strands standing messily atop of his head.

“You need to keep it as manageable as possible. This is about one step below white woman syndrome; this is young, rich, white boys – when the media gets hold of this, there will be no room for fuck-ups. The moment it's out in the public, everyone will freak and everyone will be watching. It's safer to monitor and trace his movements without the city in freak out mode.” Patrick pauses, looking down at his own fingers tapping out a beat on his knee. “We gotta get him before his next victim, though.”

Pete nods his head, crossing his leg over his knee and bouncing his ankle. “You think he's got someone else I mind?”

“Serial killers can stop, it's bullshit reasoning that says they don't, but this guy's obviously got a type. Whatever boy catches his eye will be next, we just have to hope we get him before then.”

“Yeah, I know,” Pete rolls his head in his hands lightly and sighs heavily. “This is the biggest case I've ever headed up and I'm freaking out about fucking it up.”

“Don't fuck it up, then.” Patrick smiles briefly and then slides out of the office. He takes a break, takes Penny for a walk, and tries to familiarize himself with where he is. He sees a few uniformed officers staring at him and he smiles, but they look away. Maybe his friendly attitude does need reworking a little bit.

Patrick goes back to the station – to a spare office – and starts to move the sparse furniture around until he has a blank spot in the center of the room. He stumbles back into the main office and sees Pete sitting on a desk, rubbing at his forehead aggressively. 

“No. I do not want the press involved yet, this is just a suicide okay? That's what we're working on.” He hangs up quickly and then looks up at Patrick, a red spot on his forehead from his rubbing. “Everything alright?”

“Were you at the scene at all?” he asks Pete, who nods his head. “Good. I need you to help me with something.” Pete frowns, but Patrick ignores it and instead marches back into the room he's been occupying. 

“You've moved things around,” Pete says to him lightly, looking to Patrick, who just pushes his glasses up his nose and goes to the other side of the room.

“I want you to pose in the exact way you found the victim laying.” Patrick ignores the look he gets and instead heads back over to the file, waiting until Pete does as he's told.

“What are you trying to prove?” Pete says, lying on his back on the floor, arms raised slightly above his neck.

“I'm assuming we're both aware of the reason Kluke brought a man back to his bed that night,” Patrick mumbles. “The victim was clothed still, but the leather belt was squeezed from behind. Turn over a minute.”

Patrick waits until Pete does as he's told, kneeling up behind him. “He's strangled from behind like this.” Patrick puts his hands briefly to Pete's neck, not caring of their close proximity. “The strength of the strangulation suggests the killer is male and the bruising on his neck works on the idea that the attack came from behind, but he was posed on his back?”

“Yes,” Pete says exasperatedly. “We've been over this.” He twists around again, laying down in the position the body was found in.

“The grazing on the back of his neck from the crucifix indicates it was torn off whilst he was on his back. So after death.” Patrick thinks aloud, kneeling down beside Pete. “He rips the crucifix from the boy's neck in anger, I'm guessing. Anger at himself or anger at God, I'm not sure. But I don't know if I'd stand by the assumption that it's a trophy after that realization. Especially as the other victims had nothing taken from them.” Patrick's frowning in thought as Pete stands up, putting a hand to Patrick's elbow and helping him from the floor.

“Jesus Christ, you've only been here a day, how did you get all that? You're like a creepy adult-child genius.” Pete's slapping a hand to Patrick's back, like it's a compliment. Patrick remains confused.

“That makes no sense. I guess I'm good at my job,” Patrick shrugs his shoulders, but he lives off this kind of adrenaline. He likes that it takes over his mind, that he isn't left thinking about the grief weighing him down the rest of the time. He wishes he'd taken a job on during the days after Andy's death, maybe it would've stopped the sorrow before it set in. “This is only the beginning.”

“Yeah, I know. Hey, so I asked Kluke's roommate to come in tomorrow to help with some inquiries. She seems pretty level all things considered.” They're still in the empty office together. Patrick can hear the bustle from the main center-point, but right now he's just focused on Pete... Who is focused a little too much on Patrick's mouth. He rubs a hand over his own lips, and Pete blinks away, heat rising to his cheeks.

“Suspiciously?” Patrick makes a point to continue the conversation. Pete doesn't seem like a total asshole – he seems good at his job and Patrick can kinda see that they'd work well together – but the staring is off-putting. 

“No, I just think she wants answers. She's worried for her own safety, obviously she's not a target, but she doesn't know that.” Pete shrugs his shoulder, looking like he's trying really hard to keep his eyesight on more appropriate areas now he's been caught out.

“Alright. Well I want to sit in on it.” Patrick crosses his arms over his stomach and waits for Pete to argue. Cops usually argue at this point.

“You can watch from behind the glass,” Pete suggests, but Patrick shakes his head.

“People like me; I'm not an actual cop so I don't spook anyone. It's not gonna be a bad thing to have me in there.” Patrick's never been good at selling himself as something positive but he needs to keep an eye on this case, to watch people that are involved. “If you want me to do a good fucking job then let me do it.” 

“Alright, _fine_. But you do not speak until I tell you to and you do not lead the interview.” Pete's demands aren't anything Patrick hasn't heard before, but it's nice to have someone fight him on things. People bend for him these days, too afraid of fucking him up further.

 

Patrick only goes home long enough to dump his bag. He was going to stay in, attempt to call someone about hooking up his cable, but he can't face another night alone by himself.

He has too many memories running through his head of crawling into bed with Andy, burying his face into his chest and remaining comatose until morning. Those nights were some of his favorite; they barely spoke, but it was nice just being held long enough for his brain to switch off. He can't do that now, can't do that ever again and so he doesn't want to be alone. 

“Let's go lose our minds, Penny.” Patrick tells his dog, clipping her leash on and walking from the apartment. He won't get wasted, not when he's got the investigation, but he needs to forget everything that makes him hurt for a little while.

It turns out he lives in a really shitty district for nightlife, and in the end the best option is a dated, dirty bar a few blocks from his apartment. He picks Penny up, guessing that a crappy bar is probably as suitable for her as a police station, but she's his wingman now; she's his Robin, and he hasn't got anyone else. 

“No pets allowed, honey,” a woman says to him when he perches at the bar. It looks like an old guy's bar, and he thinks maybe this is a terrible idea and a waste of his time, but he doesn't have anywhere else to go.

“She's a service dog,” he lies. Both Penny and the woman stare at him for a few moments before she gives him a wink and a tight smirk.

“That's bullshit, but you're cute so I'll let it go,” She says before taking his order of a bourbon neat. The bar is pretty dead, and there's monotonous country music playing from the speakers and it's making Patrick's ears ache, but it's better than the damp walls of his own apartment.

“What's a cutie like you doing here alone?” the woman says, coming back with his drink. He holds it between his fingers, staring down into it for a good ten seconds before realizing she's holding her hand out for a shake. He takes it, smiling into her face briefly, feeling concerned for his bones with how tight she's squeezing his hand. “Vicky. Your resident bored barmaid.”

“Patrick. I'm uh. New to the area, so this is the first place I tried out.” Six years Patrick was in Wisconsin. Andy was this super cool drummer touring Patrick's college when they met. Patrick geeked out completely in front of him, and really, nothing changed much once they got together. They got jobs and haircuts and Andy bulked up as Patrick slimmed down, but they stayed constant, off kilter, but completely in love until that night two months ago.

“You don't know anyone in the city?” Vicky's voice brings him out of his reverie and Patrick hums until he processes what she's saying.

He ends up shaking his head. “Oh, I grew up just north of Chicago, but I started my new job today.”

“Oh, what do you do?” Vicky leans over the bar, blowing her heavy bangs from her eyes. “You look like you only just graduated.”

Patrick laughs at that. “No. I'm a criminal profiler, I've been brought in on an investigation in the area.” Most of the time when he tells people his occupation they give him a double look and generally don't believe him, but Vicky's eyes light up instead.

“Oh, you're Clarice Starling! That's so fucking cool,” she says, leaning forward. “You know, she was my first crush. I think it was the hair.”

“I'm in no way the badass she was.” Patrick admits, not feeling out of control or awkward for the first time all day. “And I don't work for the FBI, but it's similar, I guess.”

“You ever catch a cannibal?” She leans forward and sucks in a breath as a joke and Patrick laughs from behind his hand, tightening his spare hand on Penny sleeping on his lap.

“No. Last year I worked on a case where these twins went on a murder spree killing other twins. It was pretty intense, but I guess my work paid a pretty big role in catching them.” It had been the first case where Patrick actually felt like he directly helped solve it. Andy took him to on a weekend break to celebrate after, and Patrick's certain he's never been as happy as he was those few days they spent together.

“Shit.” She pushes her bangs back again and looks almost traumatized. “I know it's wrong to judge, but I've always found twins creepy, all that finishing each other sentences and sensing things. Real life mutants, you know?”

“They had a lot of issues, but uh, I've met more homicidal non-twins.” Patrick smiles at her, sneakily feeding Penny potato chips from the bowl. He goes to grab one for himself, but Vicky claps a hand on his wrist and shakes her head, leaning in close. 

“I read this survey once. These scientists found twenty different traces of piss in one bowl of bar nuts. I only tell the nice guys that, so don't eat that shit. You've seen the guys in here, you think they wash their hands?” She pushes the bowl away from Patrick and gives him another quick smile.

“That is so gross.” He looks down at Penny and feels bad for feeding them to her. “Thanks for telling me.”

“No problem, Patrick. You stick around, alright? I'll come talk to you later.” Vicky shoots off at that, laughing dirtily at something someone says at the opposite end of the bar. 

 

Patrick goes home a little later. He talks to Vicky a bit more and she puts her number in his phone and he's pretty sure it's not a pick up because already she treats him a lot like his sister does. It's nice having people be nice to him and not just because they feel sorry for him. He's tired of that. 

Still, he goes back home and he hates it. He's in an apartment that doesn't feel like home, and now without the rush of work or pretty barmaids he's left with the chest crushing grief that comes with being alone with his thoughts. Penny's no use now either, curled up on the pillow beside him.

“You should have let it hit me,” Patrick says to the photo he has of Andy by his bed. 

He doesn't sleep that night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the sweet comments and kudos!

After interviewing Lenny's roommate together, Pete doesn't talk to Patrick the rest of the day. Patrick just shrugs it off and assumes he's pissed him off somehow. Angering a colleague that he won't see again in a few weeks doesn't bother Patrick, not when there's bigger things at stake. Not when they're still clueless about who's murdering these kids.

“I'm just saying that we actually need to talk through things together or there's gonna be a pile of dead kids on our hands. No one wants that,” Patrick says for the billionth time to Joe, who for whatever reason is acting as a go-between for them. Patrick doesn't care for his own sake, but he's not playing games. “Tell your boss to fucking come talk to me over why he's pissed instead of communicating through you.”

“He's not my boss, we're partners!” Joe insists. “He's taken the lead on this case, and I think he's just stressed out because this is a whole lot bigger than we figured. He's the one feeling the heat on this.”

“What exactly did you figure?” Patrick crosses his arms, perching back on the table behind him. “Like, I'm sorry if this case isn't nice and neat for you guys, but you called me in to help you out, so fucking work with me.”

“You're so freaking feisty for a little dude.” Joe raises his hands in defense, dropping his smile when Patrick doesn't grin back. Patrick stares up at him, unblinkingly, and sees the tiredness of dealing with this shit play out. 

“You should go home, you look exhausted,” Patrick says to him quietly. Joe's been nothing but friendly to him, and Patrick knows he shouldn't rag on him like this. He pushes his lips into a smile, hand on Joe's shoulder, and pats it awkwardly for a few moments.

Joe just shakes his head. “If Pete’s not going home, I'm not going home. That's just how we roll.”

“Why isn't Pete going home? This case hasn't even started properly yet, you need to rest whilst you can.” Patrick worked much bigger murders when he was in Wisconsin, and more than a few times he's been shipped to other states to help out. Patrick remembers sleepless nights in hotel rooms, talking to Andy through the blurred computer screen in the limited downtime he got.

Again, Joe gives Patrick a disagreeable look. “Nah, if Pete’s not going home then I'm not going home. We sort of...he needs keeping an eye on sometimes. You probably know that by now.”

“Doesn't he have a wife to go home to?” Andy would look after Patrick when he worked overtime. He'd snatch the laptop away and shove spoonfuls of soup into Patrick's mouth when he'd work through dinner. Patrick even remembers on a few occasions being tossed unceremoniously into the shower when he'd been too preoccupied to think about bathing.

“He has a wife, sure. I don't know how often he goes home to her,” Joe says and then sighs heavily. “Shit, you are the last person I should be saying this to. I stay out of his private shit, alright and you should too. It's not any of your business.”

“I never said I wanted in on his private life,” Patrick points out, but he can see if he continues to push this, he'll lose whatever camaraderie he has with Trohman. He sighs, and rubs a hand over his face. “So he won't go home because of the case?”

“I guess,” Joe shrugs. “He's proving a point, mostly. He wants to prove that he's good at this. He's not run an investigation like this before, not one this large. He's got a chip on his shoulder, you know. It's not-- this is just a big thing for him.”

“If he won't work with me then he won't have an investigation to run. There'll just be more dead bodies and the FBI will take over.” Patrick's had his fair share of cases taken over by the FBI, and if they take this one – when he needs it more than ever – he thinks he'll take all of his rage out on Wentz.

“I'm real tired about running circles with you about this,” Joe says eventually, and Patrick nods, trying to find another way around this situation.

“We can't do anything else for today, alright? Get your coat, get Wentz, and meet me in the parking lot.” Patrick steps away from Joe, smiling briefly before heading to the office he's taken claim to.

He's not left waiting too long downstairs, Joe and Pete both eye him suspiciously, but Patrick smiles and hopes it doesn't look as horrific as it feels. He used to be so easy with his happiness, but he doesn't have any anymore and his entire existence feels like an empty charade.

“We're going to a bar, and we're going to socialize and tomorrow maybe we'll stop being such assholes to each other.” Patrick tells the two of them, ducking his chin into his scarf, watching Pete stare down at his mouth and then away.

“Maybe that's how they do things where you're from, but down here we like to keep things professional,” Pete says, dark eyes catching on Patrick's. He looks uncomfortable, nervous and wiry, but his words just irritate Patrick.

“Where I'm from is the Illinois suburbs, you fuck, and really, keeping things professional hasn't helped us so far. So--” Patrick taps his foot. Joe's staring at him with a friendly smirk, but Pete's looking at him like he wants to either punch or fuck him. Patrick isn't sure how he feels about either one of those things, so instead he focuses on Trohman, flickering another fake smile at him. “You know any good bars round here?”

It's an alright bar, Patrick supposes. The beer is cheap if nothing else, but everyone else is around six foot with shoulders broad enough that they could probably carry a Patrick easily each side. 

“This is a cop bar,” Patrick says in realization. There's always that one bar near any station he's worked in that holds booze at lowered rates for cops, he tends to avoid them really. He's only started drinking with any frequency since Andy's death, prior to that he never much felt like the need.

“Yeah it's a cop bar; cheap beer, cheap laughter, and cheap shots,” Pete says, which might be a joke, but Patrick doesn't get it. He watches Joe head over for the first round, ignoring how Pete’s eyes are burning into the side of his face.

“So did I piss you off in the interview earlier? I thought I was being respectful,” Patrick questions, finally meeting Pete’s eyes. He watches Wentz struggle to keep eye contact, tapping his fingers against his jaw and moving his eyeline to Patrick's hat instead.

“You were making it pretty obvious that we're linking this to more cases, and I really don't want the media involved yet,” Pete says eventually. “I'm not saying she would leak it to the press, but I don't want to risk it, not yet.”

Patrick leans into him, tipping his hat backwards slightly. “But like. You're going to have to take some risks, Pete. We can't wait around for him to trip up. That means letting him kill again.”

Pete’s eyes move back to Patrick's directly again. “But that means trusting my instincts. I'm good at that when I'm not the fucking captain of the ship, but if I fuck this up, I'll be ruined.”

“No, you won't.” Patrick rolls his eyes at the melodrama, but he pats Pete's shoulder lightly when he still looks vaguely nauseous. “I can back you up on anything you're querying as long as you explain things to me. Joe has your back too.” Patrick answers eventually, grateful when Joe comes over with their drinks. “Thanks, man.”

“It's cool, dude.” Joe falls down opposite Pete, taking a heavy sip of his drink before changing the subject. “Like, so. Where's your dog at these last few days?”

“I figured she's better off at home. I don't really know why I took her the first day. Nerves, I guess.” Patrick runs his fingers down the side of his beer, parting the condensation and trying to ignore how Pete keeps staring and staring.

They talk for a little while. There's a friendship between the two of them that Patrick thinks is deeper than they're letting him in on. Patrick doesn't mind, he just watches them interact, and can't help but pick up on the signals and signs between the two of them. When they turn the conversation back around on him, his toes curl in his shoes and his stomach tightens enough that he loses his breath for a second.

“So what were you doing in Wisconsin anyway? Wouldn't there be meatier cases in the bigger states?” Joe's asking politely, and he doesn't mean any harm by it, but Patrick's desperately trying to find a way around talking about himself.

“I was fine with the cases I was dealing with up there. I moved to be with a guy after I graduated college.” Patrick thinks he could tell them, they're nice dudes and he could tell them that he lost his boyfriend two months ago in an accident. He could tell them, but then they'd give him those awkward looks and they'd start to question his work; start to think he doesn't have a grip on the case and look for someone else. If Patrick doesn't have work on his brain he has nothing _but_ his grief and that's just not something he can deal with right now. “The relationship ended so that's why I came back.”

“His loss,” Pete says, and his eyes are on Patrick's mouth _again_ and Patrick wants to throw up; wants to lose the neck of his beer bottle in Pete’s eye because it makes his fucking skin crawl to be flirted with, to be looked at that way. He swallows it down with a slow slug of his drink and watches his own fingers fidget on the tabletop. 

“Not really, but I don't-- I don't want to talk about it so can we change the subject?” Patrick gives them both a look that's wide-eyed and a little sad. He thinks sad is probably is default expression these days anyway.

Instead Joe talks about his wife and his baby daughter and how awesome it is being a father, how he didn't know it could be so fucking cool and how he almost wishes they'd done it sooner. Patrick and Andy, they figured they'd try and get registered as foster parents at some point, they wanted a kid though, not a baby. Patrick's not sure he could ever do it now.

“I've got two boys,” Pete says, “kids can really change a guy.”

“So can dogs,” Patrick jokes and they all laugh. It loosens them all up, and the conversation starts to flow a little better.

They call it quits after two more drinks, but Patrick feels like he's got their trust a little better. Joe is easy, and he's kind, and more importantly he's concerned for Pete. He puts all his thoughts into how it will affect his friend best and Patrick thinks he's the only one that's picked up on it. Pete may question his own abilities as a cop, but Patrick thinks he's got Joe's full trust, and that's enough for him.

Pete's different. He doesn't hide the fact that he spends a good deal of time staring at Patrick's ass when he's turned away, or his lips when he's talking, but he doesn't do anything about it either, and he doesn't touch. Patrick's too confused and broken to deal with it right now, but he doesn't hate Pete for it, not nearly as much as he should.

Patrick watches them both head to their cars – back to their families – as he sits in his own for a few minutes. It's not an anxiety attack, but Patrick mostly wants to crawl out of his own skin, to get away from the constant itchiness and the guilt and the trying to deal with everything, with having to put on this new Patrick that doesn't feel right. He wants to be the old Patrick so badly, the one that had a man and a house and happiness and a fucking warm bed that he wasn't afraid of. 

 

Patrick paces his apartment when he gets back, Penny in his arms. She's a comfort; like the safety blanket he didn't outgrow until he was eight. But it's not enough and his mind is screaming out. He's not going to sleep tonight because he never sleeps anymore, he averages three hours of restless nightmares most nights.

He remembers that he has Vicky's number. The barmaid from the other night that seemed interested in being his friend for whatever fucked up reason. He shifts Penny slightly, feeling her familiar heartbeat against him as he fumbles for his phone. He sends her a clumsy text, asking if she remembers him and whether she's working tonight or free at all. It sounds needy and desperate, but he thinks he might go mad otherwise. 

“I remember you,” Vicky says when she phones him five minutes later. “The little twink with the Pom.”

“I don't think it's possible to be a twink at thirty,” Patrick says, and then shakes his head from that train of thought. “Are you free right now? I thought we could hang out.”

Vicky clucks her tongue down the line. “I'm working a shift at the bar, but you're not far, right? Come down and we can do something after. It's dead in here, anyway.”

“Can I bring Penny?” Patrick asks, and she laughs harder at him. Patrick winces at the ringing it leaves in his ear. 

She just snorts one final time. “Yeah alright, bring your goddamn service dog.”

 

It's still a shitty bar, and Patrick thinks he wants to make it to at least one decent one whilst he's down here. Between this and the one Joe and Pete took him to earlier, he's not been all that impressed.

Patrick spends a while at the bar with Vicky. She's fun; she's wild in ways Patrick could never be, but he doesn't analyze her, doesn't want to judge her because she's nice to him, and she's friendly when she doesn't have to be, and when she invites herself back to Patrick's apartment, he's glad for the company.

“I got a lil' Pomeranian too. A black one called Gizmo. He's everything I've ever wanted in a man,” Vicky says when they get back to Patrick's apartment. “How old is she?”

“The shelter said maybe three years. I only got her when I moved here.” Patrick holds onto Penny, feels her tiny skeleton beneath his hands and thinks horrible death-ridden thoughts for a few seconds before he lets her jump down onto the floor.

“To cure your loneliness?” Vicky asks and Patrick shakes his head, fighting back anything that wants to spill out. She just gives him a dirty look from beneath her bangs, poking the side of his head. “Only the really lonely call up a barmaid they just met and ask her to take them out.”

“I don't know anyone in town, yet. Well, I went to a bar with some guys from work earlier and they seem nice, but that's it.” Patrick shakes his head further, tucking his feet beneath himself on the couch as Vicky heads over to his refrigerator. There's a pitiful amount in there, but she swings a bottle of wine that she finds over her head. 

“Oh yeah? Any hot guys catch your eye? You'll never meet anyone where I work.”Vicky's smirk loosens as she pulls the cork from the bottle with ease.

“It was mostly cops and lawyers, not really my type,” Patrick says, getting up to help her pour the drinks. He doesn't have wine glasses, those were still back at the house in Milwaukee. He has mugs though; his chipped Star Wars one and a floral cup that he found when he moved in. He hands them over and lets her pour a healthy amount into both before putting them on the coffee table and falling beside her on the couch. “I think my boss wants to sleep with me.”

“Never sleep with your boss, that's a terrible idea.” She warns and there's a look in her eye that suggests she knows from personal experience. Patrick smiles tightly, glad he's never really been in that situation before.

“I mean, he's not really my boss. He's just heading up the investigation. He's okay. He's nice, I think. I'm not... I'm not really looking for anything though. The thought of sex with someone else makes my skin crawl. It's always crawling these days, but more.” Vicky frowns at him and Patrick knows he's said too much, let out most of what he's been hiding, but he thinks he needed too. Needed to let it be said. “My boyfriend was killed two months ago and I haven't been the same since.”

“Shit, dude, I'm sorry.” She puts her arm over his neck and it doesn't make him feel better, but it's not worse either. “That explains why you always looks so sad. You look like a little kid that's lost his mom in the superstore.”

Patrick smiles because he knows that true. “Andy looked after me. I didn't need him to, I was capable of handling things myself, but I liked it. He fussed me and he kept me safe when it wasn't necessary, but now he's gone and I feel it. It's numbing but it's the most painful thing in the world and I don't know. I just miss him so much and it isn't fair. It should have been me.” Patrick plucks his glasses from his face, tossing them to the coffee table as he pinches the bridge of his nose. He's not going to cry, but he feels the emotions rise up, feels his breathing start to speed.

“Why should it have been you?” Vicky's voice is soft, but her hand remains tight on his shoulder. He can feel the tops of her nails digging into his flesh, but he likes it, he doesn't say a thing about it.

“We were walking home from a date-- We were crossing the road and it would have got me, it was going to hit me, but then he saw it. Andy saw it and he pushed me out of the way and there was fucking ice on the roads and it hit him and I just--” Patrick stops talking, too into thinking about it and all the ways it hurts. He wishes he hadn't been there. He was face down on the asphalt, didn't see Andy stumble into the headlights but he heard the sound, that sickening moment when body hits windscreen. 

“So, then you came back here,” she says quietly and Patrick nods his head. His heart races talking about it. He just doesn't. He didn't talk for days after the accident; holed himself up in their bedroom as Andy's friends tried to come to terms with it without him. He didn't even speak to Kevin about it when he was forced back to Illinois. 

“I went all kinds of crazy up there in our house. I burnt half his shit; I took a chainsaw to our bed and then set light to it in the garden. I saw a shrink for a bit, but it wasn't... I studied psychology in college, but knowing why I feel this way doesn't stop it. You can't rationalize grief. Then my brother threw me into the back of his car and I haven't been back since.” Patrick bites at his lip, folds his hands over his face and tries not to let his sorrow out. “The house is on the market, and once it sells I'll have to clear it out, but I don't want to. It's like putting away a life I wasn't ready to leave.”

“And I thought my last breakup was hard,” Vicky jokes quietly and Patrick smiles through the pain. “At least you know he loved you. He pretty much sacrificed himself for you. The only person I'd do that for is my fucking dog.”

“I never doubted that for a moment, I just know he didn't deserve to die, not for me.” Patrick falls forward, pushing his fingers tighter into his eye sockets. He did maybe six weeks of crying in the aftermath, but now he can't, not when he's with people. He grabs his mug from the coffee table and takes a large gulp of his wine, spitting it out when he tastes it. He's glad for the shock it gives him. “Gross. I hate the cheap stuff.”

“So you're a highbrow wino,” Vicky laughs. It's weird being friendly with someone that he really knows nothing about; that he's got her drinking cheap liquor with him, and that he's spilled the worst part of his life to her. “Can I crash here tonight? I missed the last bus.”

“Sure,” Patrick says, leaning back again. He doesn't know if that's true, or whether she just doesn't want to leave him alone after what he's said. He doesn't really care. “I have to get up at six to leave for work, though.”

“Fuck. That's one reason I'm glad of my shitty job, I don't do well during the mornings.” She takes his mug of wine and drinks it down, fingers running down his cheek briefly. She looks like she feels sorry for him, but everyone does these days. Patrick doesn't hate her for it.

“I hate mornings too.” Patrick remembers the dark ones with Andy, who wasn't exactly a morning person, but compared to Patrick he was the sunniest thing in the world before 8 AM. “Feel free to stay till whenever.”

“Sure, Patsy.” He gives her a look for that, but he doesn't mind really. He hasn't been ragged on in so long, he's almost missed the familiarity of it.

“I can feel your – uh – assets.” He tells Vicky later in his bed. It's weird. Weird to be held; weird to be held by a woman and not Andy. Vicky laughs into his ear and then he feels her hand slide from his stomach down to his crotch. He bucks back and she squeezes him tighter.

“Yeah? Well, now I can feel your assets, so let's call it even.” She slides her hand back up to rest on his belly and this time keeps it there. “Let it out if you need to, don't hold back if it hurts.”

Patrick knows she means to cry if he needs, but he doesn't like to. Not in front of people, so he just stares up at the photo of Andy. Vicky doesn't seem to mind that he's asked to keep the light on, and she falls asleep quickly, breathing softly against the shell of his ear. 

“Why couldn't you let it hit me?” he asks, same as every night. 

 

Patrick heads into work the next day with a headache and a clicky wrist from where Vicky slept on it all night. He sees Joe talking on the phone and gives him a wave as he heads over to Pete's office. 

He doesn't see Pete right away, but he does notice a pair of garish Nike sneakers poking out from behind the desk. He goes around to the other side until his toes line up with the trimmed bleached hair of Pete's head. 

“Should I ask what you're doing?” Patrick asks quietly. He takes a sip of the tea in his hand before placing it on the desk and crouching down to meet Pete's eyes. 

“Simultaneously thinking _and_ hiding from the boss. I'm a multi-tasker,” Pete admits. He blinks up at Patrick, dark lashes fanning upwards. “Patrick, we have to crack this before the FBI take over. I can't deal with losing this case, I swear I'll fucking transfer to Vice if I lose this.”

“Nah, Vice is shitty. You're a good cop and you've helped me a ton with the data collected,” Patrick reasons. He wonders if Pete’s one of those guy's that needs his ego stroked and petted every so often. After the whining in the bar, and this conversation now, he's guessing it's a yes. “Organized Crime would be a better option.” 

“I like homicide,” Pete says instead and Patrick nods. 

“Homicide is fun. Anyway, I've got an idea.” Patrick crouches down beside Pete and falls onto his back, mirroring Pete's body. “Not really an idea, but I'm curious. These kids all had experience with the same sex, but everything suggests they weren't assaulted by the perp. Normally I'd say that'd make one motive a homophobic one, but that doesn't sound right to me.”

“It's pretty homophobic to be killing queer kids, Patrick,” Pete says, turning his head to look at him.

“I don't disagree with that, but why isn't he killing every gay kid then? Why just the fair-haired middle class boys? There's more to it than that.” Patrick looks up at the ceiling, not focusing on anything but the thoughts running through his brain. “I think there's a reason he's picking these boys, but their backgrounds are clean. I want to say it's a missionary killing, it feels like he's sacrificing the kids. Like, Kluke, he's got a kinda angelic appearance, right?”

“Like you,” Pete points out and Patrick shuts his mouth. 

“I don't look anything like that kid.” Lenny's hair was lightened with bleach and over-styled, not to mention he was taller, broader, and about eight years younger. The assumption they're in any way similar heats Patrick's skin up and infuriates him.

“Yeah, but you have the angelic thing down to a pat.” Pete folds a hand over his eyes and groans, like this is all giving him a headache. “So you're definite religion _and_ the boys' sexuality plays a part in motive, but we don't know who's doing it, where he's finding the boys or the real reason why. Your theory works, but we can't say for sure.”

“Pretty much,” Patrick says. He shuts his eyes for a moment and when he opens them, Joe is standing over the two of them, looking a little confused. 

“Am I the only one doing any work?” Patrick sits up and smiles at Joe's comment. He's a nice guy, Patrick thinks. He deserves a promotion one day. Patrick won't be around to see it, but he's certain it'll happen.

“I think we're making progress, but I need some more time to think about it.” Patrick heaves himself up to leave. When he turns to help Pete up he sees where his eye-line is and he flusters and flushes. Pete doesn't even seem to care and Joe looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than stuck with them. 

 

Patrick sits at the table in the diner, staring down at his burger in contemplation. He's been looking at it for a good few minutes now, watching the heat fade from his food as it cools. He's not even that hungry, he's not even sure what point he's trying to prove right now, even to himself.

“You are so fucking weird.” Patrick looks up to see Joe and Pete staring down at him. He sighs heavily, this is his fucking lunch break and he just wants a little bit of time to focus on food. For himself. 

“What? Why are you both here?” He frowns up at them, pushing his plate away from himself slightly. He's almost glad for the distraction.

“Is that a brioche bun?” Joe leans down to Patrick's plate, and then nods appreciatively, looking up at the clock on the wall. “Gonna get me one of those. We've got half an hour.”

“Get me one too,” Pete says, waiting until Joe heads to the counter before he slides into the booth next to Patrick. Pete sneaks a fry from Patrick's plate and Patrick sighs heavily. “Why were you staring at your plate like that?”

“I haven't eaten meat in a long while. Not... Well, since I've been in my own,” Patrick shrugs his shoulder. He still doesn't want anyone at work knowing, he's still determined to keep it between Vicky and himself.

Pete just pulls a disgusted face. “You gave up meat for a man? What the fuck, dude?”

“I didn't do it _for_ him, and he was vegan, I wasn't that far. It's just always easier to skip out on meat when you're with someone that doesn't eat it. Plus, he did most of the cooking anyway.” Patrick bites down on his lip, rubbing the soles of his sneakers against the floor, wanting to do something to stop the squirming in his chest.

“So you're getting over him by eating meat? Go on, man. Do it like a band aid. Shove that burger in.” In theory, Patrick knows eating meat isn't something that Andy would hate him for, but Patrick hates the thought of moving on; of leaving him behind. It feels like a betrayal, and he doesn't want to betray, doesn't want to be that guy.

Patrick tries the burger, biting down into the meat and chewing softly. It's horrible, really. The meat is gristly and cheap, sticking to the top of his mouth and tasting dirty. He takes a large sip of his coke to wash the taste down, before pushing the burger away. 

“That was maybe too soon,” Patrick says quietly. He watches Joe head back to the table and slide in opposite, the weight of that one mouthful feeling heavy inside him. “Why did you guys follow me in here?”

“We didn't follow,” Pete says quietly, which sounds a lot like a lie. “But uh. We did get the forensic testing back from the autopsy. Lenny had fibers beneath his nails – leather – which matches the idea that it was a belt.”

“Uh-huh. Makes sense. Why wasn't it found on the other bodies? The bruising all leads to it being the same murder weapon.” Patrick picks at the fries on his plate, staring between Pete and Joe. 

“The report said their nails were trimmed down during the assault, probably after death. They were scrubbed clean, why his weren't doesn't make sense,” Pete says casually, leaning over to steal a fry. He's frowning, dark eyebrows folding inwards and Patrick only realizes he's staring when Pete gives him a look.

“He stole the crucifix from Kluke aggressively, right? Maybe he got super pissed off,” Joe muses. “You know what it's like, you see red mist and suddenly you're not thinking straight. He's done three murders fucking perfect but now. He's bound to slip up. That's just how it goes.”

Patrick narrows his eyes, mulling it over in his head. He thinks about this kid; strangled from behind but posed on his back. The necklace ripped from his body. “The crucifix didn't anger him, it just freaked him out,” Patrick says quietly. “I don't think this is fueled by religion, more like his own personal beliefs coming into play.”

“But you said it was to do with religion,” Pete says and Patrick gives him a dirty look back.

“That was one theory I put forward, this one is better.” Patrick pushes his half-eaten food away and leans forward onto his elbows. “The guy, he's killed Lenny from behind, right? Put the kid in the bed and then sees this gold cross around the boy's neck. I think he's religious, but this isn't a hate crime.”

“He saw the cross and figured Jesus would be real mad at what he's done?” Joe carries on. He leans back briefly when his own burger is put down in front of him. Once Pete's food is served, Patrick nods. 

“He took it as judgment from God, maybe. You need a list of all Catholic churches in the areas surrounding the murders. Talk to the priests about any odd behavior, or strangers hanging around. Maybe a man that's been through a trauma or reawakening of faith.” Patrick takes another sip of his drink, watching the two of them practically inhale their lunch. “That's what I think we should be looking toward. But keep it under the radar for now. It's better that it's not an out and out religious attack, but this still isn't something you want leaked...”

“Crazy Catholics will be after our blood,” Pete finishes when Patrick leaves him hanging.

“I'm not involving myself in the politics of it. I'm just laying out the facts and trying to find answers.” Patrick senses Pete's eyes on him and he tries to look him in the eye, but Pete's staring down at his mouth. Patrick bites his lip, sucks on the bottom one and sees Pete's breath comes in quicker. Patrick just shakes his head, wiping a hand over his mouth before looking down at his plate. “Okay. You guys finish your food. I'll see you back at the station.”

 

“So, like, my wife says you should come over tonight,” Joe says, walking into Patrick's office a day later. Patrick's in the middle of looking over the autopsy results for the fourth time, but he stares up at Joe, unsure of what he's said until he processes it. 

“Why?” Patrick's heart races slightly because he doesn't want to play nice, not even to Joe's wife, who he's certain must be lovely. Patrick can't fake it as well as he used to and he doesn't want to spend the night dodging questions about his personal life.

“Because she's super nice, and I told her you were new in the area and that you took me out drinking the other night after work,” Joe shrugs. “She likes to know my drinking buddies.”

Patrick wants to say no, but at the same time he can't bare much time alone in his apartment. The hours he spends in there leave him exhausted and fucked up. It's alright when Vicky's over, and Penny is better than no one, but it's constantly exhausting. 

“When do you want me?” he says instead. 

 

“Being a dad is like the best shit ever,” Joe says later that night. He's spent the evening in Joe's nice, modest house, making polite conversation with Marie, who is sweet and funny _and_ a killer cook. Joe's a lucky guy, getting this life. It makes Patrick feel unbelievably lonely until he finds himself with a warm, chubby baby on his lap. Joe's sitting opposite him, pulling faces at his daughter, when he says, “you didn't want kids?”

“We thought about fostering a kid in a few years, but it never got past the talking stage.” Patrick holds his hand out and the small baby catches his finger in her fist. “Penny is enough for me now.”

“Probably for the best, right? You broke up with your dude – it would've made things messy." Joe rolls a shoulder with a large smile, like he's trying to be nice, so Patrick doesn't say anything against it.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He tries not to think too hard.

“I've seen the way Pete looks at you, but don't take it the wrong way.” They're on Joe's back porch now, in two deck chairs staring up at the sky. Patrick feels like a suburban dad and it's more than a little unsettling. “He's not trying to be creepy or anything. He likes you.”

“He's married,” Patrick points out the one thing that everyone's seem to forgotten. Patrick hasn't; even if he wasn't dealing with the grief of losing Andy, he wouldn't want to go there with Pete. He's never been the type to take what isn't his.

Joe just waves a large hand dismissively. “I don't think there's much of a marriage left. This isn't-- Look, she sees people and he screws around and so if you were interested it wouldn't be, like, morally wrong.”

“Yes, it would.” Patrick rolls his eyes, fingers curling over the plastic arms of the sun lounger as he stares up into the starless sky.

“Right, yeah.” Joe shakes his head, fingers tugging through his hair. “Plus your boyfriend just left. You're still getting over that. It would make Pete the rebound, right? He deserves more than that.”

“Right,” Patrick agrees, ignoring how everything hurts. 

 

Vicky is over at his place the next night. After another long day of working on the case and trying to fight off the media's sniffing nose, as well as annoying detectives breathing down his neck, Patrick had whined incessantly until she agreed to come over.

She's brought her tiny black dog with her this time, and after a few moments of hesitation, Penny and Gizmo make like good friends should and disappear into the kitchen together. Patrick listens to the scratching of their claws on the tile and the little yaps they give each other before he turns to Vicky.

“He's neutered, right? I don't wanna deal with puppies,” Patrick says looking up at her, feeling stupidly small against her long frame, but she just winks at him.

“No funny business, I swear.” Vicky gives him an approximation of the Scouts' honor, before leaning over and reading some of his notes on the coffee table. “Shit, that's like, super nasty.”

“No! Don't read my notes,” Patrick says, flipping the pages over in a panic. “Please. This is confidential right now, I can't have it getting leaked.”

“I'm hardly gonna leak anything,” she laughs, her warm long body stretching out beside him. “I guess I didn't really believe you when you said you did that shit. Figures you were telling the truth.”

“It's not something I'd lie about.” Patrick frowns, shutting his eyes and finding comfort in the body beside him. He tries to change the subject, and hits on awkward right away. “So uh. Did you always want to be a barmaid?”

“Does anyone?” Vicky pushes her bangs back out of her face, and gives him a filthy look for that question. “I trained as a hairdresser at first, but that was boring, then I worked reception at this sleazy hotel. Then, I wanted to be an actress before I realized that the casting couch is an actual thing.”

“That's horrible,” Patrick says, even though it doesn't even compare to some of the things he's seen in his job. To Patrick it's always been about tracing clues and piecing things together without involving himself too much, but occasionally he'll be involved in a case that he can't help but be horrified by. “I'm a logical guy, I think that's why I'm good at my job.”

“Have you found the guy that's doing it yet?”

“Not yet,” Patrick says, “but I've set the team up with a pretty good idea of who he is, we just need to cast the net now. We'll reel him in eventually, hopefully before he strikes again.”

“I sure hope that your hope pays off,” Vicky deadpans, giving him a wink before leaning in closer. “Hey, is your boss still trying to sleep with you?”

“Yeah. I. It's not as sleazy as that, I think he just likes to look.” Patrick knows Pete wouldn't do anything, wouldn't even come onto him properly unless Patrick gives him the go ahead. He's sort of wondering if maybe he _should_ , just to see how he'd react to it. 

“He sounds like one of the guys you should be tracking,” She jokes, but Pete’s not bad. Patrick would probably like him a lot more if he wasn't chained down with the grief that keeps catching him out. He spent a quarter of an hour that morning just sitting in his car trying to regulate his breathing. All he'd been thinking about was Andy's mom, and how he forgot to send a birthday card last week. 

“I'm making him sound worse than he is. I'm just something new to look at, I guess.” Patrick can handle himself, he's handle much worse than a boss with wandering eyes, and still, he doesn't think it's a terrible thing, it mostly just makes him uncomfortable.

“Something _pretty_ to look at,” Vicky corrects him, poking a finger into his soft side. Patrick just squirms and shakes his head. 

“I'm not sure about that.” Patrick shrugs his shoulder again. “We work well together, that's the main thing.”

“If you say so.” Vicky sounds dismissive of his comment, but she takes a large sip of her drink instead. Patrick's had a few of his own, but it makes his head spin to drink on an empty stomach. Some days he eats, but now that there's no one coming over with re-heatable casseroles and pasta bakes daily, he doesn't always have the drive to think about making himself food.

“Are you staying over again?” Patrick asks Vicky when they've been slouched comfortably on the couch for a good while. She's good company, she doesn't make Patrick forget the pain, but at least he can step outside of his own thoughts when she's around. She doesn't pry about Andy, either. She doesn't want to talk about it like Kevin did, or Andy's friends back in Milwaukee.

“No, I should get going. You'll be alright on your own?” Vicky questions and Patrick nods his head right away. He won't be, but that's okay. He's getting used to it now.

He gives her a smile all the same, but the look she gives back suggests he needs to improve it. “I'll be fine. Just text me when you're back, so I know you got home safe.”

“Sure thing.” Patrick watches Vicky stumble up into the kitchenette where the two dogs are curled up sleeping together; blonde on black. She gets Gizmo leashed up, and kisses Patrick's cheeks before leaving the apartment. 

Patrick looks down at Penny, at her sweet little face, and sighs heavily. He goes back to his notes and decides to spend the rest of the night going over everything he already knows.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very long, but I hope you like it :)

Patrick's mood the next day is dire. He's not sure why, really. His sleep pattern is the same as always; little of it and when he does it's dreams of headlights, horns blazing, and the feel of a familiar hand against his cheek before it's pushed away. Patrick's terrified that he'll one day lose the ability to remember, that he'll forget everything that was his for eight years. 

Still, Patrick stares blankly at the wall in the main office, sipping shitty filtered coffee as he waits for everyone else to make it into the station. Pete comes over at one point, hand curling over Patrick's shoulder in greeting. Patrick gives a tight smile over the flimsy cup, but he knows it doesn't really meet his eyes.

“We've got a priest in today, you can watched from behind the glass. He says he's seen a guy hanging around his church he thinks might be linked to our enquiries. It's a long shot, but--” Pete looks down at the notes in his hand, scratching his jawline. He needs to shave, stubble coming in dark against the bottom half of his face and it gets Patrick thinking again. Patrick remembers those few awkward months whenever Andy grew out his beards, the rashes he'd get over his face and thighs whenever they were intimate. Patrick squeezes his cup, lost in the nagging conversations he'd have with Andy over it. He wants those moments back so bad.

“Hey, careful!” Patrick's jolted from the memories as Pete puts a hand on his wrist. Patrick sees his own hand is covered in black liquid, coffee spilling over the disposable cup from how he's been squeezing it tight. 

Pete plucks the cup from Patrick's hand, dumping it in the bin before dragging him to the bathroom to shove his hand under cold water. 

“It wasn't that hot,” Patrick says, seeing the red slithers of heated skin against the pale of his non-burnt skin. It starts to sting now, and he berates himself inside. “I wasn't paying attention.”

“I got that,” Pete laughs. “You seem out of it, you doing alright?”

“Sure,” Patrick sighs. Pete gives him a curious look, but Patrick looks away, tugging his hand from under the water and shutting it off with his good hand. “Just didn't sleep, that's all. What district is this priest working?”

Pete blanches at the change of conversation, but he manages to fill Patrick in quickly. It's all a little too vague for Patrick's liking. It seems like a long shot, but they've got to start somewhere, and no one else has come forward with anything.

“You're not needed in the interview, I'm having Joe take it. I need to follow up some more leads elsewhere, but let me know if you pick up on anything,” Pete says, leading the way out of the bathroom. 

“Why aren't you taking it?” Patrick asks, he's sort of wishing he'd been able to finish his coffee before he spilled it everywhere. Now his head hurts and he feels groggy and he's worried that he's going to slide backwards, into the crying phase that he's only just climbed out of. He takes a few breaths, shakes his shoulders, and waits on Pete's response.

“Honestly, Joe's just better at interviewing than me,” Pete shrugs, hand low on Patrick's back as they walk through the station. Patrick wants to squirm away from the hand touching him; wants it to burn. It just feels like someone touching him, and it doesn't feel bad at all, no matter how much he wishes it would.

“I have a killer headache, have you got anything I can take?” Patrick asks, pulling away from Pete's hand. Pete puts a hand to Patrick's forehead, ignoring how Patrick squirms away.

“When was the last time you ate something?" he asks and Patrick frowns, trying to remember. He just drank last night with Vicky, but he didn't eat, he doesn't have much in his refrigerator; almond milk and possibly some kind of shitty pasta salad.

“Like, yesterday,” Patrick says. “I had some lunch.”

“Shit, come with me.” Pete grabs Patrick's hand and marches him through the station and out to the parking lot. They end up at Pete's car, and Patrick licks his lips in confusion as Pete slides into the passenger side and yanks open the glove compartment. 

“What are we doing out here?”

“I don't know what's going on in your head, but you have to fucking eat. I need you to function properly or we're going to land in shit.” Pete throws a Capri Sun at Patrick, holding an apple in his spare hand. “As a dad I come prepared with nutritious snacks.”

“Is this really that nutritious?” Patrick looks down at the pouch in his hand, trying to tug the orange straw from the back. Pete doesn't answer, just staring at Patrick with enough force that Patrick just stabs the straw into the front of the drink before taking a large sip, squeezing the pouch.

“Feel better?” Pete asks when Patrick's squeezed all the juice. His throat and all the way down to his belly feels cold, but refreshed. Pete hands him the apple, watching him take a bite before he looks at his watch. “I've got some pills in my office if you still need them, but you should feel better after eating. The priest is coming in a quarter of an hour, so you've got time to get to the interview rooms. You sure you're up to this?”

_“Yes_ ,” Patrick says around a chunk of apple. He feels a little more alive now that he's got something in his stomach. He was eating alright when he had family members or neighbors feeding him, but now he's on his own he just doesn't think. The last time he ate something properly was the day at the burger grill; at Joe's house the night after. “Just a bad morning. Thanks for this.”

“Yeah, well you can buy me a drink at some point.” Pete says awkwardly. Patrick gets that it's a really bad attempt at a casual pick up, but he pretends not to notice. Instead he just nods his head and chews the fruit in his mouth. “I've really got to get back to work, you sure you're okay?”

“Yep, cross my heart,” Patrick lies, eyes locking on Pete’s for a moment. “I'm gonna go get in the zone, see you later.” Patrick leaves Pete at his car, knowing exactly where Wentz' eyeline is directed at. Patrick's almost flattered, he just wishes he could care enough to do something about it.

 

Patrick's head is a lot clearer when he's behind the glass, watching Joe sit opposite a friendly-looking middle aged man. As he watches Joe talk back and forth with the priest, Patrick assesses Father William's body language and behavior; he can tell he's being honest with what he knows; earnest with telling the truth. 

“You didn't receive him for confessional at all?” Joe asks lightly, he's keeping it as informal as possible, but the man shakes his head, looking disappointed in himself.

“Not that I'm aware of, detective, though I can't speak for any colleagues that may have.” Patrick leans forward against the glass, tries to catch anything hidden; any markers, but there's nothing bothering Patrick in what he's saying or doing “I wasn't sure how this information could affect your inquiries, but there's something troubling with him. He's left the church whenever I've tried talking to him, but he comes back every time. He's being called to the church, whether he wants to be there or not.”

There's not much else to go on; the priest gives a detailed description of what the man looks like to Joe, who has an artist's impression drawn up on the descriptions. Father William agrees to neither approach the man or spread word of his conversation with the police.

“He seemed genuine,” Joe says, rocking up next to Patrick once he's said goodbye to the priest. Patrick nods his head, pulling on various strings in his head, trying to sort through the case. “You think the person he's praying for could have something to do with the murders?”

“Depends on whether this is the same guy or not. Sure, grief or trauma can trigger reactions from people you wouldn't expect.” Patrick hasn't wanted to kill anyone since Andy's death, but he's definitely not the person he was prior to losing him.

Joe runs a hand through his hair and groans. “Damn, I miss the cases where everything plays out on surveillance footage, you know? Makes life so much easier.”

“I know,” Patrick gives a smile. He doesn't feel it anywhere other than on his lips, but Joe doesn't seem disgusted by it. “It makes life pretty stagnant too, though. It's good to be put up against a clock.”

“You really think he's gonna kill again soon?”

“Absolutely. There was nothing special about Lenny; not that we can see. The interest the perp had in Kluke doesn't seem personal, he just ticked certain boxes for him.” Patrick kicks his feet against the floor, before swallowing down his dry throat. He still feels a little light headed, despite Pete’s snacks. He should go get some lunch – take his break – but he doesn't have the drive. He can't face it. “You putting the artist's impression out into the press?”

Joe nods his head. “Yeah. I don't think we can keep them in the dark much anymore. Sometimes they can help. They're not always dicks.” The tone of Joe's voice suggests he doesn't actually believe that and Patrick looks up at him curiously.

“With a case like this?” Patrick asks aloud, expecting Joe's wince. A killer that's fueled by religion and sexuality always brings the shittiest press storm. Patrick gets why, that it feeds into a marketable hysteria, but he's never had time for that shit. He hates when it interferes with his work.

“We're holding a press conference at midday,” Joe says. “Pete's pissed as hell, but honestly, we're running out of ideas. We need the help.”

“You gonna say you're linking it to other murders?” Patrick asks, but Joe shakes his head.

“Not yet. Just asking for information pertaining to Kluke's death.” Joe looks like he's about to say something else, but then his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. Patrick hears him filling Pete in on the details of the interview before he leaves the room to give Joe some privacy.

Patrick zones out when the team starts prepping for the press. He watches for a few moments as they're all briefed, but this isn't his part of the job, and he isn't needed. He heads to his office when Pete and few other officers leave to brief the media. He knows it'll be recorded and repeated over and over on the local news stations, but he watches it live on his phone, anyway. The press are as ruthless as ever; sniffing out more than they're meant to know, degrading the detectives and the job they're trying to do as they pick apart Pete's actions – or inaction – as they see it.

Patrick's picking at a bag of potato chips when Pete arrives back, looking to be in a killer mood, his brow furrowed and his mouth pushed out in a pout. He looks like he wants to either throw up or burst into tears, but he calms down a bit when he closes the door to Patrick's office.

"Did that go as terribly as I thought?” he asks quietly, turning around to face Patrick. He rubs a hand over his face and sighs shakily. Patrick knows what it's like to feel like he's constantly falling apart so he doesn't say anything about it, doesn't try to make him better.

“Same as they always are,” Patrick says instead, holding out his chip bag for Pete to take one. Pete does, perching on Patrick's desk as he munches it. “You did fine, you did good – the media are dicks because they're paid to be.”

“I know. I just hate all that shit. My boss offered to take the spotlight, but I thought I should as it's my investigation, but man, I'm shitty at public speaking.” Pete’s rambling, but Patrick nods his head in all the right spots. “Good to see you're eating something.”

“I had nothing else to do,” Patrick shrugs. He doesn't know what else to say, so he just crumples the empty bag up and tosses it into the wastebasket. “I think I'm gonna call it a day, I'm not needed right now.” Patrick goes to stand, but Pete puts a hand on his arm, dark eyes sliding up to meet Patrick's.

“Lets go for a drink,” he says. “You owe me, remember? For the food.”

“I wouldn't have eaten it if I thought you were going to blackmail me,” Patrick muses aloud, watching Pete’s eyes bulge in defense before he shrugs his shoulder. “Okay, sure.”

“You're so fucking weird,” Pete says not for the first time, but he's staring at Patrick's mouth again, so he probably doesn't mind.

 

For the first time since he's been in town, Patrick's taken to a bar that isn't some awful joke. There's booze, classy artwork on the wall, and people surrounding them that don't make him feel like a tiny tot. 

Patrick doesn't want to get drunk, but he doesn't like being sober in such a buzzing bar, so he has a few beers, but not enough to get anything more than a little tipsy. Pete’s more animated; touches Patrick's knee beneath their table and laughs at nearly every word Patrick says. Patrick thinks he's pumped up on adrenaline from the press conference and finally unwinding from the stress. He's cute, Patrick thinks, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to fuck.

Patrick thinks on it some more. He hasn't been with anyone since Andy; not been with anyone else in eight years. Patrick doesn't know how to seduce, how to be sexy. Andy just liked him the way he was; when he was fat and when he was thinner. 

But Pete wants to fuck him tonight. Patrick can see it in his eyes, can sense it in the way Pete's fingers tap tap tap restlessly against the steering wheel as he drives Patrick home. He'd touched his mouth a lot at the bar earlier, leaned over with his hand on the inside of Patrick's elbow, blunt nails digging in ever so. Patrick knows all the markers, can read Wentz like he can read everyone else. Patrick looks down at the way his neat fingers curve over the shift stick. 

He's attractive and it wouldn't be hard to just lay there and take it. He might enjoy it, might not feel so dead inside for a few moments. It's got to be worth it for that. 

“You can come in if you like,” Patrick says, dropping his knuckles to Pete’s hand over the stick. Pete jolts as he pulls up outside Patrick's apartment. His eyes widen and then darken, that Patrick's allowing this after no flirting on his end.

“Come in for...some drinks?” Pete asks quietly, like he's bashful, like he's not a married man willing himself into some sick affair. Patrick's judging him before they've even done anything.

“Not for drinks, no.” Patrick unbuttons his seatbelt and leans over to do the same for Pete. Pete’s breath hits his cheek in a stale puff and Patrick moves his head away. “You know what I'm talking about.”

Patrick leaves the car at that, but barely has to wait two seconds before he hears Pete skittering out of the car, tripping over his own feet in desperation. Patrick finds it weird to think he has that affect on people. Andy was never like that, was always cool and slick when Patrick wanted him to be.

Patrick doesn't want Pete in his bed. It's not like he even shared this one with Andy; this is his bed now, and he doesn't want married men in it. Doesn't want to have to do laundry when he's gone, doesn't want to sleep curled around the wet spot.

“I've seen the way you look at me, Detective,” Patrick says, keeping his voice low. He watches Pete's eyes flicker shut, how he licks his lips when he sees Patrick standing in the kitchen, head tilted to the side. Patrick keeps the lights down low so Pete doesn't have to see the sad state of the apartment. 

Patrick's never been one for seduction before; he's too awkward and nerdy, but he thinks Pete's probably just that easy. Patrick kicks his own shoes off, slides his leather jacket from his shoulders and jumps slightly at the loud clatter it makes as the belt hits the cool tiles.

Pete approaches at that and Patrick flinches at the feel of firm hands on his waist, squeezing his hips in their grip. He lets Pete pull and tease him, rolls his neck away and lets Pete suck a bruise onto the skin. He tries to keep his mind blank, to just feel and not think. He's fucking tired of thinking.

Patrick's skin feels irritated with where Pete’s touching him, like there's a fire burning up his skin and he doesn't like it, but he doesn't want it to stop either; he wants it to burn hard; to peel everything away and leave him as ash. He doesn't want to rise out of it after like some made-up beast, he just wants to be dead. Just wants to not exist anymore.

Pete’s on his knees the next time Patrick zones in on him. Patrick's getting hard; Pete knows what he's doing with dick, knows how to suck and play with it so maybe he does this a lot. Maybe his interest in Patrick is just to feed into some weird fantasy of his. Patrick doesn't really care, he just wants to get this over with.

He feels fingers pushes back between his legs, sees Pete staring up at him in a question, mouth fixed over his dick. Patrick takes a breath and spreads his legs wider, making his answer clear. 

Patrick hadn't been a virgin when he met Andy, but he had been inexperienced and every time previous had mostly been bad. After he met Andy he never wanted it with anyone else, and he fails to see how it could ever be good with someone new.

He fades back into real life as Pete fingers him; only dampened a little by spit, but Patrick's good at taking it and he likes it rough. The more it hurts on the outside, the easier it is to deal with the sodden mess of his insides.

When Patrick's had enough of being fingered, he tugs on Pete’s wrist, manually pulling the fingers from his ass and staggering away. He tugs his jeans off, watching Pete do the same. He watches him place his holster on the kitchen counter and Patrick gets down quickly to his knees and slides his mouth over Pete’s dick. He doesn't focus on the taste or the heaviness or the fact that sucking dick used to be something he craved. He loved Andy's cock, loved spending lazy Sundays in bed with a cock in his mouth; feeling it thick and warm in his hand before tasting it with his tongue. Andy's cock made him want to swallow, want to be a good boy about it. He wonders what Pete would do if Patrick showed him some teeth; made to bite. He'd probably lose his job, so he swallows it down.

Patrick could probably do with some lube - a condom would be good – but he hasn't got any here and Pete doesn't seem to be interested in searching his wallet for one, so Patrick just pulls his jeans off all the way, kicking his underwear off with them.

The tile is cold under his ass, but the button-down he's still wearing keeps him from arching up. He spreads his legs slightly, knees up, hoping Pete gets the fucking message, so that this can be over with.

“You're so fucking hot,” Pete mumbles, falling down onto the tile. He's got his dick hanging out of his pants, and Patrick thinks it's alright. Not bad. It's going to be rough, going in with barely any prep but he can manage it. “Been wanting to fuck you the moment I saw you.”

“I know,” Patrick says, staring down between his legs at where Pete’s falling over him. It's weird and clinical like this, feeling Pete’s fingers pushing between his legs, fingering him again, before grabbing his own spit-slick dick and rubbing it between his cheeks.

Patrick turns his head to the side, resting his cheek on the kitchen tiles as Pete lifts his hips into his lap, bending Patrick awkwardly in the middle as he breaches him. Patrick feels a burning in the small of his back, feels himself clenching and unable to relax as Pete gives a sturdy thrust and lands himself all the way inside.

“Shit,” Pete grunts, losing his balance over Patrick and falling on top of him. Patrick's thighs burn and his hips ache because he's almost touching his ears with his knees with how Pete’s bending him, but it's okay. It stops that ache in his chest for a few moments. He puts his own arms over Pete’s neck and squeezes his ass muscles a few times, feels the thick cock inside twitch.

“You gonna fuck me or what?” Patrick asks, mouth to Pete’s ear. Pete laughs and Patrick moans slightly, because he felt it all the way inside. He tries jiggling his own hips into moving, so that Pete finally fucking him, instead of rooting him down like this.

“Gonna fuck you, babe. Gonna fuck you so hard,” Pete says and Patrick squeezes his eyes shut at the pet name. He knows he's an ass for this, for using Pete like this without even knowing why, but it hurts. His back hurts from arching up and his hips hurt and his thighs hurt and his ass fucking burns because it feels more or less dry, but it's still not enough pain, it's not switching his brain off enough.

“Choke me,” Patrick says when Pete’s been thrusting for a few moments. Pete’s knees are going to be bright red from this, and Patrick wonders briefly if he'll need to explain that to his wife, if he plans on going home at all tonight.

“Huh?” Pete asks. He lifts his head from where he'd been sucking on Patrick's neck, and he's already starting to sweat; dripping down onto Patrick's cheek. He looks confused, though his hips haven't stopped thrusting. 

“You heard me, put your arm here and just--” Patrick takes one of Pete’s forearms and lays it against his own windpipe. “Push down on it. Fuck me and choke me.”

Pete hesitates for a few moments, but then he spreads his own legs and changes the angle and Patrick gasps up, because it hits all those good things inside him; and Pete tentatively presses against his throat with his forearm, stopping the air catching in Patrick's gasps.

Pete chokes him a little harder, pressing against Patrick's throat as his dick slides out briefly, before he tucks it back inside Patrick's body. Patrick knows Pete will pretend later that he didn't like doing this, but he's into it now. Patrick feels how erratic his thrusts are getting, how he's grunting softly, trying to kiss at Patrick's skin, fucking him in Patrick's kitchen, on the goddamn floor. It's dirty and it's wrong and Patrick would hate himself a lot more if he could breathe properly.

Patrick moves one of his own hands from Pete’s shoulders to his dick, touching it from beneath his shirt, teasing it as his head gets dizzy from lack of oxygen. He can't think, but that's good, that's what this is for. He feels himself come against his own belly, squeezing his muscles enough, massaging Pete’s dick with his ass and sensing the moment he finishes too.

Pete’s arm immediately slides from Patrick's throat and suddenly a full supply of air has Patrick's choking as it refills his lungs. He lifts up onto his hands and knees to catch his breath, finally able to breath properly.

“You're fucked up,” Pete says quietly, resting his hand on Patrick's shoulder before it's shrugged off. “You need fucking help."

“Maybe I do,” Patrick whispers, because his throat feels a little sore; a lot ruined. He can feel Pete’s come sliding from his ass, trickling down his thighs and he goes to say something else when suddenly he starts to retch instead.

Pete gets up and Patrick wonders for a second whether he's going to just be left like this, before he feels hands under his armpits, hoisting him up and dragging him over to the sink. Patrick vomits into it, Pete still holding him up. Patrick breathes a few times, face wet with tears from the vomiting, stomach clenching and his throat tight, but Pete keeps a warm hand around his waist, twists the faucet on and catches water in Patrick's mug still draining on the side.

Pete stands him up fully, handing him a mug of water. Patrick takes it, tries a sip and feels it slide down his throat and sit in his belly. When it doesn't cause another bout of nausea Patrick takes another sip. He wonders if Pete’s going to fire him for this, maybe he'll request a new profiler and Patrick will be out of a job.

“You might want to take a shower before you go back to your wife,” Patrick says, placing his mug back on the side, and looking down at his himself. His back and neck ache and his ass hurts and he's not sure if he's even able to walk right now. It's probably what he deserves.

Pete's face screws up when Patrick looks at him. “Fuck you! Don't talk about things you don't understand.”

Patrick's spoiling for a fight now though, because he's a terrible person doing terrible things. “You're a married man, I understand that. I didn't do this because I want to be your side piece, or whatever the fuck you call it!”

Pete looks a little taken aback, and then almost a little sad. “What was it then?”

“I don't know,” Patrick admits, because he doesn't; he hasn't ever. He shuts his eyes and wonders what Andy would think of him right now, standing half naked on his floor, body loose and wet from a married man. “You're not subtle – you wanted me. I just figured why not.”

Pete's hands immediately go to his short hair, tugging at it in frustration. “You figured why not? Jesus Christ, Stump! I'm not a goddamn rapist, you acted like you wanted it.”

“Well maybe I did and maybe I don't know why, but can you please just take a fucking shower and leave me alone for a few minutes?” Patrick hisses because he can feel that his eyes are wet again and that his body is shaking and he doesn't want to be that way in front of Pete. 

Pete doesn't say anything, but he does leave the room. The apartment isn't big and he finds his way to the bathroom easy enough. Patrick waits until he hears the sound of water running before he throws up into the sink again. He runs the water, clearing it when he finishes and takes another few sips of water. His throat burns, and he wets a cloth, wiping his stomach off, before pressing it between his legs and wiping away where Pete finished inside. He cleans the puddle on the floor and then heads off to his bedroom.

Penny's curled up in his bed, nose tucked under her tail and Patrick runs his fingers over her soft fur, before he heads to his closet and pulls out some pajamas to wear. He steps into them and takes a few deep breathes. Now he's stopped vomiting and stopped shaking, he thinks he should probably apologize to Pete, he just doesn't know how.

He hears the sound of the shower shut off as he slides himself into the bed. He doesn't look at the photo on the bed, because he feels so much shame right now; so much anger at himself and all the shitty things he does.

“You should go back to your wife," Patrick says when Pete enters the room. He looks at Pete’s body, taut muscles and shoulders broadened by weights; he's more solid than Patrick realized, and it makes his heart race slightly. He digs his nails into the meat of his thighs, trying to stop the burning inside at such thoughts.

“Not tonight I won't.” Pete climbs back into his own boxers, dumping the rest of his clothes in a pile beside the door. Penny lifts her head up at that and immediately bounces from the bed, to make a cushioned pillow from Pete's abandoned clothes. Patrick's more curious about how Pete’s about to climb into the bed beside him. “I don't know what's going on inside your head, I don't know why you are the way you are, but I don't think you should be alone tonight.”

“I'm not going to kill myself,” Patrick says, wanting to flee from the bed when he feels Pete settle beside him. Pete doesn't touch him, but Patrick still feels the heat from his body and it makes him squirm.

“I know you're not. Just because the thoughts in your head aren't suicidal it doesn't mean they don't hurt. I shouldn't have let what happen happen, but it did. Now I want to make it up to you by being a friend.”

“Does your wife know that you sleep with male colleagues?” Patrick asks, trying to stop Pete's kindness. He doesn't want it, not after what he's done. “I'm not the first, that much is obvious. This isn't a secret either; Trohman's made it clear you like guys. You've not been subtle about checking me out, so it's obviously a thing you do. You're a good guy though, and you have a conscience, so maybe you're just staying because of the kids. You don't want them growing up without you.”

“You've profiled me?” Pete says incredulously, and Patrick laughs to himself, feels it in every aching muscle. It stops the burning anger in its path. “You fucking dick.”

Patrick tries for honesty, looking at Pete sideways. “It's my job, it sort of just comes to me. I just-- I don't want you to think this is what I do, that I'm the kind of guy that wants to break up marriages. I don't do things like this normally.”

“You won't be the one to break mine up.” Pete frowns and Patrick turns to look at him. He's handsome; tanned with a fit body. People call Patrick pretty sometimes and he's never sure if it's a compliment or not, but he doesn't often get people that look like Pete wanting him. “We got married as a fuck you to everyone saying we wouldn't last, but then we had kids and careers and it's not funny at all. We fucked up but we don't want to admit it to each other so we just exist as this weird hollow couple.” Pete seems to mull his own relationship over with a pinched expression on his face before he turns to Patrick again. “You ever got hitched?”

Patrick shakes his head immediately. “Andy... He wasn't really into that shit. He would've done it if I'd really wanted it, but it was enough to just be with him. He bought me a ring for my twenty-third birthday.” Patrick holds his hand out, showing the smooth silver band on his left index finger. Patrick hasn't taken it off since the night Andy died. “It wasn't an engagement thing, but it always felt like a marriage after that. Then he died and now it doesn't mean anything.”

“Christ,” Pete says, suddenly going tense and silent. Patrick turns his head to look at Pete, but he's staring at the photo Patrick has of Andy, and then down across Patrick's face. “That's why you're so-- why you're the way you are.”

“Yeah, I never used to be such a wreck. I was very well put together.” Patrick shuts his eyes, because he still sees the scene now. The impact of Andy shoving him hard in the back, tasting asphalt and all the rest that follows. “Two months. It's been nearly three now, I guess.”

“I guess that explains why you were so fucked up earlier. Was um. Was that your first time since he died?” Pete rolls over onto his side, and Patrick feels dizzy, unsure of talking about this or having someone in his bed. The anger's faded now, though, he doesn't hate Pete anymore.

“Yeah, I just wanted to do something to make the hurt fade or change into something more palpable, I don't know. It's so hard to breathe all the time, I just thought why not. I'm sorry for screwing you over, for making you think you had a chance.” Patrick chances a look at Pete, picking at his lip nervously, but Pete doesn't look mad or upset.

“It's alright,” Pete shrugs. “I could have said no. I could have not fucked you knowing it wasn't what you wanted. As a detective I really wasn't using my brain on this one.” 

“This is true,” Patrick says and he finds himself feeling a little better. “You are a fine specimen, Wentz, and I think I'm punching above my weight a little by having you in my bed.”

“That's not true at all. You're right – I do fuck around with men, but I've had your body on my mind a lot." Pete’s confession has Patrick wrinkling his nose up, and Pete looking a little sheepish. “You're so compact, so little, but kinda padded too. I like that. Your thighs, man. You know, we'd be much farther on in this case if I didn't keep getting distracted by your thighs in those goddamn skinny jeans.”

“Wow, okay,” Patrick says and he raises his fingers to feel how heated his cheeks are. "Did terrible sex change your opinion?”

“It wasn't terrible, and it didn't change my opinion, but I'm not gonna pursue this because I'm married and you're grieving. Maybe-- I don't know. Maybe one day when you're in a better place and I'm a divorcee we could.” Pete's words are nice, but Patrick can't ever imagine a time in his life when he won't be grieving. 

“That's if you still like my thighs in the future.” Patrick points out slowly, hearing Pete laugh at his words.

“I'm pretty sure I'll be thinking about them in my dying days.” Pete presses his forehead lightly to Patrick's shoulder, and it's alright. There's no aching itchiness anymore; just the numbness that never leaves. “Never had anyone throw up right after fucking before though, that was kinda a bummer.”

“Sorry about that. It's never happened to me before, either.” Patrick feels bad, and if he wasn't so worn down with emotions, he'd probably be pretty embarrassed too. Instead he twists his head to look up at the photo on the side, sees Andy smiling at him in the photo, sees the way he's looking at him, and he sighs heavy. “It hasn't got easier yet. I keep waiting for the pain to fade, but it doesn't.”

“I don't think it ever will, I think you just get used to it.” Pete's voice comes out quiet, and low, and Patrick's seen him be sensitive before during police interviews but it's weird having it aimed at him.”Do you want to try getting some sleep? I promise not to touch you.”

“You can touch me,” Patrick says, now that they've fucked the atmosphere doesn't seem so taut. He remembers how Vicky spooned him that one time, and that he slept a little better. “I spent eight years sleeping next to a warm body, it's hard going cold turkey.”

“Okay,” Pete says, he waits until Patrick turns over onto his side before tentatively curling up behind him, arm sliding over his chest. It's not Andy, Patrick knows that, but right away his body loosens and relaxes into the man behind him. “Is this alright?”

“It's fine,” Patrick says, shutting his eyes to the night.

Patrick sleeps for six hours straight and when he wakes up it's with the feeling that he actually had a restful night. He blinks awake, feeling a warm body behind him, and he's confused for a few moments. He thinks he's back in his farmhouse in Wisconsin before he remembers he doesn't live there anymore and that Andy is dead. It's only a few seconds – same as every morning – but it hits him hard.

“You sleep alright?” Patrick turns his head and sees Pete laying in the bed next to him, his phone paused on a shitty arcade game. Patrick remembers last night – the sex on his kitchen floor; the way Patrick let everything out, telling Pete all about his sad little life. He doesn't feel as bad about it as he thought.

“First time in a long time.” Patrick turns his head to his alarm clock and sees it's just before seven. “I'm gonna take a shower.” Patrick slides from the bed, muscles reacting to the disaster of last night. He takes a breath and limps slightly, shuffling into the bathroom. Pete snorts at Patrick's stiff movements, but he doesn't care. He blames himself mostly. 

Patrick stands in front of the mirror for a few moments. He shies away from eye contact but instead peers down at his throat. There's a purple mottling from where he had Pete pressing down against his windpipe. When he swallows he's a little sore, but he can talk alright; he tries not to see parallels between that and what happened to all those dead kids.

Patrick steps away and into the shower. He's quick about it even if he knows his muscles needs longer under the spray, but they'll be leaving for work soon. He needs to focus on the case and not how he took his boss to bed last night. How wrong it feels to steal someone's family just because he lost his own.

Pete's rattling around with a frying pan in the kitchen when Patrick steps out of the bathroom, but he doesn't pay him much attention, heading to his bedroom instead. He tugs some clothes on, trying to ignore all the thoughts rattling around as he buttons his sweater up over his shirt and pulls on some socks. When he wanders back out into the kitchenette, Pete's pouring hastily scrambled eggs into a bowl and pushing it to Patrick. 

“Eat breakfast. So you don't go all woozy like yesterday,” Pete says. Patrick nods, grabbing his fork and stabbing at the eggs. They're mostly tasteless, but Patrick's hungry enough that he doesn't care. “You slept solid last night. I'm a light sleeper, but you were in deep whenever I woke.”

“Yeah,” Patrick sighs, not wanting to look up at Pete. “I guess having someone else with me helps.” It was a little like it with Vicky, but not exactly. He doesn't know how to explain it. “Feels like I'm betraying Andy.”

“He'd want you sleeping, he'd want you healthy. Don't give into the things that make it harder. I mean-- If you want me here a couple of days a week to help you sleep that's alright,” Pete shrugs his shoulder, face going a little red at what he's insinuating before he backtracks. “Obviously _not_ the part with the choking and sex, but if you need someone to just be here. To hang out with.”

“I don't ever want to have sex again. With anyone. It was too soon for me,” Patrick says, just so Pete knows it's off the menu, that he can't do it. “I'm sorry I made you think otherwise.”

“That's cool. I'm actually kinda glad it's not hanging over us now. No more tension,” Pete says, but he puts a hand on Patrick's and it doesn't seem wrong. There's no warm fuzzy feelings, but there's no burning numbness either. “Oh hey, your phone was ringing like crazy when you were in the shower. It's going now, too.”

Patrick listens faintly for the buzzing and scrambles from him chair to the coffee table. It lists three missed calls from Mixon already, and it's only twenty to eight. Patrick supposes the house must've sold. It makes his insides squirm and he ends the call. He can't deal with this yet. He can't go back. 

When he heads back into the kitchen, Pete's on his own phone, face serious as he looks up at Patrick. When he ends the call, he just swallows thickly and rubs at his mouth. 

“They've found another body.”

 

Patrick crouches down beside the body, letting the pathologist fill him in on everything. This kid matches the description of the other dead boys; no more than twenty-one and fair in complexion – the same bruises from a belt around his neck. There's a stamp to a night club on the back of his hand, which Pete says belongs to a gay bar a few blocks away. Another officer gives Pete a double look at that piece of information, but Patrick hides his smile behind his own hand.

“Discoloration suggests he hasn't been moved since death, he wasn't posed this time either.” Patrick says, looking around at the officers gathered around. He hasn't been on an active crime scene in months now, and he likes it; likes the buzz and the atmosphere and that he can hide his own stresses behind it.

“Does that rule out it being the same perp'?” Pete asks, looking terrified that Patrick's going to say yes. Patrick gives him a small smile, shaking his head.

“I don't think so. Victim matches the profile of the others, bruising on his neck is from asphyxiation.” Patrick recants everything he's just been told by the medical examiner. “But uh. This means the press will pick up that this is a multiple murder case. You need to figure what you're gonna let them know.”

“I'm on it,” Joe says, taking the pressure off Pete for that. Patrick watches Joe slide his phone from his pocket and walk away.

“There's a couple of surveillance cameras around here, I'm gonna get them scanned to try and figure his movements from the club. We should pick up the assailant along the way,” Pete carries on, handing off that chore to someone else. The rest of the officers slide away until it's just Patrick and Pete standing there. Pete loses a little of his composure, leaning his head close to Patrick's. “I mean, it's bad that another kid's got killed, but it's actually a step further, you know... That's really shitty to say, right?”

“Kinda, but I know what you're saying. Just don't say the same thing to anyone else,” Patrick laughs drily and looks down at his feet. “You're right. This is progress in there being more ways to find him. Surveillance will tell us for sure whether the victim knew or saw his attacker. He wasn't posed like the others, either. The fact it was done here in the open and not inside suggests desperation, maybe he was caught off guard. I'm not sure.” Pete nods his head as Patrick talks, but then looks down when Patrick's phone starts ringing in his pocket. 

“Sounds like someone really needs to get hold of you,” Pete points out quietly and Patrick's shoulders rise in a pathetic form of defense. 

“I'm busy,” Patrick says, but Pete shakes his head. 

“Answer it; you'll only be more distracted otherwise.” Patrick sighs, shaking his head before plucking his phone from his pocket and answering.

“Hi Mixon.” Patrick looks up to see that Pete's drifted off to talk to an officer nearby. When he turns the other way he sees the body being zipped up and lifted into the van. Patrick looks down at his feet as some kind of skewered respect. 

“Patrick, the house has been sold. You need to come and sort things out. I'm sorry.” Matt's voice is so familiar through the speaker, pulling Patrick back into a life he's trying to leave behind.

“I'm working.” Patrick tries to excuse himself, but drops the facade after a few moments of heavy breathing. “I don't. I don't want to go back there.”

“I know, but it's not my place to be going through your stuff. Things have been tough, I know, but maybe we can catch up. I can come and help you if you need to move anything heavy." Matt is sweet and Patrick knows he's been a terrible friend through all this – he wants to say something to make up for running away like he did, but he doesn't know where to start.

“I won't start anymore fires,” Patrick says eventually. “I'm over that phase.”

“You scared the shit out of me that day,” Mixon says and Patrick bites his lip, hates how much of a dick he is to everyone at all times. “Do you want me to pick you up?”

“No, its okay. I'll call you when I'm at the house,” Patrick mutters quietly. Dread weighs his stomach down, and he thinks he might go down with it, or perhaps just throw up again.

“Has something happened?” Pete asks, hovering when he sees that Patrick's off the phone and staring down at the floor. Patrick thinks he might be shaking a little bit, so he tucks his hands beneath his arms to hide it.

“I'm gonna have to bail for a few days-- my house in Wisconsin has sold and I need to clean it out. I don't--" Patrick cuts himself off, feeling his heart rate increase. He can feel it in his ears, pumping blood too loud.

“Hey, calm down, it's alright.” Pete pulls on Patrick's wrist and leads him to a quiet alleyway away from everyone else, gently pushing him against the wall. “Take deep breaths.”

Patrick does as he's told, resting his palms against his thighs and unable to deal with the fact that he's freaking out about this. He lived in that house for over a month after Andy died. He didn't live well, but he survived; he should be able to deal with this.

“You still need me on the case, right? I want to stay until the end.” Patrick looks up at Pete, sees how concerned he looks and tries to stand up properly. “I don't want to go back there without him. I started burning his shit last time.”

“Patrick, _look_.” Pete's mouth opens wide, like he's about to start a pep talk, before he pulls a face. “What – You started a fire?”

“I chopped our bed up and set fire to it in the backyard. I guess it looked like I lost my mind or was about to jump onto the flames because the next thing I know Andy's best friend's dragging me away and locking me in the house until he'd put it out. He called my mom, who called my brother; who put me in the back of his car the next day and I haven't been back.” 

“Okay, that's a lot,” Pete says, but he's nodding like he's trying to mentally figure it all out. Patrick's aware that they're on a crime scene here, that he shouldn't be holding Pete up like this. “I know it fucking sucks, Patrick, and I know you're hurting, but you have to go back. Honestly, you've given us a lot to get on with, and I can keep you informed over the phone.”

Patrick wipes at his eyes, even though he's not crying. He just nods his head a few times, trying to assert himself in the situation. “I'm just not ready to give that part of my life up, you know? I loved that house, living there with him. He pretty much rebuilt it when we first moved in.”

“I love where I live too, it's why I'm scared of giving it up,” Pete says quietly. Patrick sniffs again, listening to what Pete’s saying. He's not sure what to think, but he appreciates the deviation from his own thoughts.

“Okay. So, I'm gonna be gone a day and a half max. I just need to shift it all into a storage facility or something and try not to go mad whilst I'm there. No promises there.”

Pete shakes his head, hand on Patrick's shoulder. “Take as long as you need, I can hire someone else if needs be--”

“No. Fuck you if you do that. Just give me a day or so...I'll phone you tonight. I might need a friend if that's alright.” Patrick straightens up properly, feeling his muscles twinge and trying to ignore it. He supposes this is some kind of karma for what happened with Pete last night. He had no right to allow it to happen.

“It's fine, man. Just do what you need to do and remember to breathe. I always forgot that part.” Pete smiles again and Patrick still doesn't understand what he means by that, but he gets that they don't know each other, not really. Maybe when he gets back they'll actually talk about shit.

Patrick leaves the scene at that, going home only to grab Penny and dump a few clothes in a bag. He throws everything in his car – figures it gives him a few hours to get his head straight on the drive up.

Patrick's pretty much a wreck by the time he drives up the lonely track to their old farmhouse. He's got Andy's shitty metal records playing, but it just makes him more tightly wound. He's puked so much in the past day, but he does again the moment he steps out of the car. 

It's a nice house; a handsome farmhouse with the veranda restored and painted by Andy when they first bought it. Patrick wanted the house the moment they saw it and Andy gave into him like always – despite knowing he'd be the one that'd be fixing it up. It still looks picture perfect on the outside, if a little overgrown; a black charred spot where Patrick played arsonist for an afternoon.

“This used to be my home,” Patrick tells Penny as he unlocks the front door. It doesn't hurt as much as he thought, though instead of a crushing weight, he's just hit with a million memories of walking through the door. Coming home to Andy. 

Everything is the same as Patrick left it. Cutlery still drying on the rack in the kitchen, the blanket draped over the couch that he'd slept on for those few weeks after the accident. It feels eery, like he's walking into another man's life. 

Patrick goes to work right away, unable to put his mind to thinking about it. He grabs a sack of garbage bags and just dumps the first shit he finds into it. He goes careful with the kitchen stuff, but he doesn't want any of it. He wants to smash it all up, and he's seconds from just jumping on it all when he catches sight of Penny looking at him from across the room.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, like she's forcing him to not be destructive. “I don't want to do the bedroom,” he tells her instead. The upstairs looms at him and he shrinks away from it, scared for stupid reasons that are unfathomable. 

Patrick's got neat rows of records neatly displayed on a shelf in their living room and he's missed them. Andy used to call them Patrick's babies because of how finicky he was about people touching them. Every so often though, he'd come back from a trip into the city with new vinyl for Patrick. They weren't always to his taste, but it never mattered much.

Patrick stacks them up neatly into a box. Part of him wants to listen to one, but he can't. He's scared of doing anything that will kick-start a burning hatred inside; that will click his brain over to something a lot darker. He carries on in silence, muttering to Penny every so often.

Andy has piles and piles of comics too; rare editions that Patrick bought and haggled for him for birthdays, and the regular ones he picked up too. Patrick always liked that about them, that they did things for each other like that. It didn't matter if it was a record Patrick secretly loathed or a comic that Andy had already read a million times over, it just mattered that they did these things for each other.

Patrick's mostly crying by that point, but furiously pretending it's just dust gathering in his eyes. He gathers Penny up into his arms and braces her against his chest as he climbs the stairs. The guest bedrooms were made up for Andy's friends when they stayed over and were sparsely decorated anyway. Patrick hardly ever went in them, but he knows he has to face his bedroom at some point.

He kicks open the door to his bedroom and is confused for a moment, before remembering that the bed is missing because he destroyed it. He carefully puts Penny on the floor as he heads in. Their bed had been the largest thing in the room, a big wooden sleigh bed with kitsch blankets that Andy's mom gave them. Patrick loved it, loved how small he felt when he'd crawl into it, loved curling up against Andy and stealing his warmth during the cold months. It's gone now though, there's just a brighter spot on the rug where it used to lay. 

The closet is still half full, taken up with Patrick's clothes that he didn't take down to Illinois and the remains of Andy's too. For someone that seemed to wear the same shit over and over, Andy sure had a lot of clothes. Patrick doesn't know what to do with them.

Instead he pulls his sweater and shirt off and tugs one of Andy's on. It doesn't fit him properly, he's lost more weight recently and the constant pudge he's never been able to shift from his stomach has shrunk a little. The shirt hangs like a dress, but it's soft with wear and Patrick hugs himself in it, remembers Andy in it. 

Patrick hears the door go and he freezes before hearing the soothing tone of Mixon. He takes a breath and heads down the stairs with Penny. He sees Andy's friend standing there, large and dark and not looking any different. Maybe a little darker beneath his eyes.

“Hey Pat. You doing alright?” he asks, dropping down to stroke Penny when she jumps up at his legs. “You got a dog.”

“Figured she'd cure my loneliness.” Patrick smiles up. Andy and Matt had been brothers really, and Patrick saw him as an in-law more than anything. He's always been cool, Patrick never felt too awkward around him. 

“Does she?” Matt questions and Patrick nods his head. 

“In a way. She doesn't fix the pain, but I don't think anything can. I'm working though, that's helping a bit.” Patrick tucks his hands into his back pockets and rocks backwards and forward.

Matt's eyebrows raise at the comment and Patrick isn't sure what to think of that. “A big case?”

“Probable serial killer in Chicago. There's been a development today so I think we might get him. It'll probably make the news up here at some point.” Patrick doesn't have any problem with telling him, he's not going to tell anyone.

Mixon nods his head. “Andy always worried about you working those cases. Always figured you'd get yourself hurt in some way.”

“I remember.” Patrick crosses his arms, feels small and weak against Mixon. “He forced me into a few of those self-defense classes, but I never paid much attention. He always worried about me, on the big and small cases, I kinda liked it.”

“Yeah. You're such a klutz, though. You broke your nose tripping over his barbell that one time last year.” Matt smiles at Patrick, who nods and laughs. It hadn't been funny at the time, but Patrick had his eyes focused down on his phone as he walked through the house, so it was mostly his fault. “You were the best thing that happened to him, don't forget that.”

“I haven't. It's just hard, all the time it's hard,” Patrick says, looking up at the ceiling and trying to remember how to breathe. 

He's not sure what else to say, if he can say anything else without crying and he doesn't want to do that. It was bad enough that Mixon found him burning everything those months back. Patrick remembers what a mess he was then, screaming at Mixon from inside the house; losing all composure and control as he finally let go of everything he'd kept bottled up.

“I'm still trying to get used to it. I still can't believe he's not here anymore.” Mixon looks down and sniffs and Patrick looks away, blinking back his own tears. He was never really close with Andy's friends, but Matt was different. They weren't besties, but Patrick spent enough time with him over the years that it's companionable to be with him. It's not like Patrick didn't make friends of his own up here either, but he's not responded to any emails or messages since the funeral.

Patrick shrugs one should, picking Penny up from the floor and cuddling her close. “Yeah, me either.”

Matt stays a little while longer, and they sit outside Patrick's house that used to be a home. Patrick's taken all the photos down from the walls, tucking them into a box face-down; he can't look at them yet, can't see how happy they are. The walls are bare and cold now.

“Hey, you knew what charities Andy donated to, right?” Patrick asks after a few minutes of silence. They're sitting on the veranda that Andy fixed up for them. Patrick remembers nights watching the sun go down together, his legs perched in Andy's lap as they spent the night out here. Andy's thumb would stroke over his ankle in soft motions as they talked shit for hours. Patrick can feel the ghost of the motion now, wishes he could go back a few months and feel it just one last time, just so he wouldn't take it for granted.

“Yeah, why?” Mixon asks quietly. He's a big man, but he's hunched up, shoulders curved inwards as he stares at Patrick.

“There's a shit-ton of furniture in this house that I can't... I have no use of anymore. The couch, the kitchen, all the closets and tables. I don't want any of it, so you should donate it to suitable charities, to ones he'd give it to. I have his stuff that I want.” Patrick doesn't know if he's being an ass, if not wanting the everyday objects that made up their life makes him bad. It feels like it does, and he knows he could do with this shit in his sparse apartment in Chicago, but he can't wake up surrounded by things that remind him of what he used to have and who he used to be.

“If you're sure,” Matt says quietly, but he doesn't sound like he's judging. Thinking back, Patrick doesn't think he's ever sounded judgmental about anything. He's a good guy, but Patrick wouldn't dare mention how he spent the night before; what he did on his new kitchen floor.

It's not awkward after that, but they run out of things to say and Patrick knows Matt's heart is as heavy as his own and they're both so sad. They hug it out, Patrick stretching up onto his tip toes to hug him tight; to have the breath squeezed from his chest, before waving him off at the door, watching him drive back up the track. 

 

There's no alcohol in the house. What little there was had been drunk by Patrick in the month after Andy died and now he has a headache and is painfully sober. He rubs his palms over his eyes, stretched out on his couch, crying softly and trying not to. He tries to breathe, a little like Pete told him in the alley. In the end he just fumbles for his phone and quickly dials Vicky's number.

“Hey Patsy, I got your text,” Vicky says to him a few seconds later. “How you doing?”

“Terribly,” he admits, unable to hide it. It's easier over the phone, he doesn't have to hide his emotions so much. He sniffs as if to punctuate his misery, and strokes Penny resting on his belly. “This used to be my favorite place in the world, but now it just feels so wrong.”

“Well, _obviously_. You know, if you'd phoned me before you left I would've come with you.” Her voice is always slightly self-depricating, but Patrick likes that – it's like ice water when he's been in the heat all day. 

“There's a new family moving into my house. They're probably gonna pull up the decking Andy put down and redecorate. They're gonna get baby vomit all over the kitchen tiles, they're gonna have sex in the same bedroom I had sex with Andy in. I just want this house to be gone with him, I want it all to just fucking disappear. I don't want anyone making new memories in here. It's supposed to be ours.”

“That's never gonna happen, Patrick,” Vicky tells him softly, sounding like she's unsure of what to say next. Patrick makes everything so fucking awkward, but it feels better after he's said it, and he figures he may as well tell her everything.

“I had sex with my boss last night.” Patrick changes the subject, pressing against the mark on his neck. Mixon didn't say anything about it, Patrick wouldn't know if he even spotted it or not. He wonders what he'd think of Patrick, letting that happen when they've only just lost Andy. “It was as awful as I deserve.”

Vicky makes a suitably disappointed noise through the phone. “I thought we agreed that would be a terrible idea. Why didn't you listen to me?”

“I had a moment of weird clarity where I thought it would help, but it didn't.” Patrick sucks on his lip, pressing his thumb against the bridge of his nose for a moment. “Actually, we're getting on better now. We're sort of friends, maybe.”

“Don't do it again then,” Vicky chides him briefly, and he looks down at his chest to see Penny staring up with him, her black eyes sparkling as she blinks slowly. He sticks his tongue out at her and she licks his arm, tail swishing. “So, it's all over the news that there's been another murder that they're linking to your case.”

"You said you hadn't read those files." Patrick cringes. He's always been pretty terrible at keeping cases to himself, but he knew he could trust Andy to keep it to himself when he shared things with him. He still doesn't know Vicky all that well.

“I said I wouldn't leak them, there's a difference. Like, shit, Patrick. This is terrible. I don't want to be fucking murdered by some belt wielding maniac.” Her voice goes quiet on a whisper, and Patrick laughs to himself.

“You're not his type, don't worry. He likes blond boys. Though it's not sexual. Also, I shouldn't have told you that. Please please please don't tell anyone.” Patrick winces, hoping she really doesn't leak any of this.

“I won't. Oh but, maybe he'll try and get _you_. Maybe you're his next target. You'll be like Hannibal and Clarice for real.”

Patrick laughs at the idea of that. “I'm really not his type either. We're getting closer, I think. He screwed up on this one by doing it outside when we can trace the kid's steps through the street.” Patrick stops talking to lick his lips briefly. “Sorry. I really shouldn't be discussing this with you.”

Patrick hangs up not long later. It's weird being close to someone he hardly knows. He's never been that way before, he's always been so cautious of people. Even before his work – before he realized how depraved people could get – he never really made friends until he was certain that he trusted them. Now he was spilling personal and professional thoughts to a barmaid he met barely a week ago. That's without the shit that he has or hasn't started with Pete.

“So is it totally fucked up that I keep thinking about last night?” Pete says to Patrick on the phone an hour or so later. Patrick hasn't moved from the couch and neither has Penny. “Wish I'd had a chance to bury my face in your thighs, you know?”

Patrick clears his throat. “Have you found the guy yet?”

“Sorry, _sorry_. I was actually trying to give you something else to think about instead of the fact you're in that house alone. I think I mostly just sounded like an ass.” Patrick can sense Pete's distraught look through the phone, and he smiles small about it, fingers stroking over Penny's ears.

“Mostly, yeah,” Patrick says softly. “But that's okay. Seriously though, has there been any progression at work?”

Pete hesitates for a moment before he starts talking. “Yeah, the cameras weren't on where the kid got attacked, but we traced his movements from the club, we know he left with the guy. I went to the club this afternoon to talk to the managers and workers, but no one saw him. I left Joe going over the footage from the club's cameras, see if he spots him in there.”

Patrick thinks it over. “Was he disguised?”

Pete answers immediately. “Dark coat, dark boots, baseball hat pulled low, but he won't have been wearing the cap inside. We're waiting to see if we can pull a better image out from the footage in the club.”

“Then you'll get the priest back in to see if it matches up with his guy?” Patrick asks and Pete just woops loudly down the phone.

“Fucking bingo, man! I really hope he does, we've gotta get him, Patrick.” Pete’s sounding nervous down the line, and Patrick remembers that this is the biggest investigation he's lead. If he fucks this up, his reputation could go with it.

“We will,” Patrick insists, because he's good at his job, he's better at it than he is at holding himself together and he thinks Pete’s probably the same. “I'm gonna try and head back tomorrow afternoon, I think.”

“You sure? You've hardly been home.” Pete questions softly, but Patrick shakes his head even if it can't be seen by Pete.

“There's nothing here for me anymore. And it's not home, not without him.” Patrick feels the wave of emotions again and he tries not to let his breathing show how his vision has blurred. “I don't cry about it in Chicago, but now I'm a fucking blubbery mess.”

“That's because you don't have any memories of him here. You're in a house that holds nothing but the past.” Pete's voice softens and Patrick decides he likes it, it sounds welcoming.

“I thought we were gonna raise a family here eventually, maybe even chickens if he let me.” Patrick muses softly, brain clicking over and over, his mouth spitting it out.

Pete makes a noise down the phone. “You wanted to raise chickens?”

“Not really, but it's a farmhouse, you know?” Patrick frowns, trying not to question what he's even saying. “There should be chickens.”

“Naturally,” Pete agrees. “Chickens for all.”

“He probably wouldn't like it, but I never asked. He was vegan and I should've known if he'd be cool with me having chickens. Why didn't I ask him that?” Patrick feels distressed, suddenly remembering all the conversations he'll never have with Andy, all the things he'll never get to learn from him.

“I don't know, Patrick. I'm really sorry,” Pete says, sounding sad himself. Patrick doesn't know why, it's not like he's lost anyone.

Patrick sighs after a pause, looking down at his tiny dog. “I have Penny now, I guess.”

“She's a good chicken replacement,” Pete says, like this is a game that he wants to play. “The same size, but cuter.”

“She's better than a chicken.” Patrick holds his fingers to her snout and she licks at them. “Jesus, why are we even talking about fucking poultry.”

Pete laughs, it's a nice sound, vibrating in Patrick's ear. “You started it. Are you sure you're okay?"

“I never said I was okay, but I'll be back tomorrow.” Patrick's hand is getting sweaty around the phone and he ends the call not long after. He keeps thinking about how this is the last night he'll ever spend in this house of memories. He won't make anymore here, and he's okay with that. Without Andy he doesn't see the point.

 

Patrick goes home the next day with a car full of shit. He goes around his home one last time, sees their bedroom empty and cold and not the way it should be. He goes to the kitchen that he's barely emptied. There's still cans in the cupboard, still glasses and plates in the drawers. Patrick doesn't want any of it. 

There's no tears left for him to dry and the numbness comes back as he drives up the track for the last time. He tries not to let his mind wander back to when they first bought the house, what it looked like before Andy fixed it up. They made it a home, and he feels like he's giving it to someone else with nothing in return.

Patrick turns the radio up to drown out his mind. It doesn't work.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the comments and kudos :)

Once Patrick's home from Milwaukee, he only goes to his apartment long enough to dump Penny, give her some food and change his clothes. Then he's back out the door, desperate to find distraction in his work once more. It's a mad chaos when he gets there, people running around and phones ringing. Patrick manages to dart out of a uniformed officers way, but not a plain clothes one who he crashes right into.

“My fault, sorry,” Patrick says, picking up the folders she drops, and apologizing again when she gives him a filthy look. Eventually he wanders into Pete's office, seeing him staring blankly at his screen before looking up to see Patrick. 

“Holy shit, you're back already.” Pete looks rough, like he hasn't slept since the newly found body. It's probably not far from the truth.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, popping his knuckles and trying to smile. He knows he mostly fails when Pete frowns in concern.

“You look like shit,” Pete says. “Have you eaten yet?” When Patrick shakes his head Pete gives him another dirty look, before pulling open his desk drawer and throwing a banana at Patrick's head. “You've got to take better care of yourself.”

“I know. Last night was just rough.” Patrick peels the banana and makes a point of eating a chunk of it. For once, Pete’s eye-line stays on Patrick face, not drifting downwards and Patrick's not sure if that's a good thing or not. Once he's taken a few bites, his own eyes drift to Pete’s bleached hair. “Your roots are starting to show.”

Pete immediately ducks down, checking himself out in his computers reflection. “Shit. I haven't had time to notice with the case going on.”

“It looks fine, really,” Patrick says, almost feeling bad for mentioning it. “Kinda shocked it's not natural. It really looks it.”

“I do not remember this deadpan humor from the Patrick of yesterday, did going back to Wisconsin change you?” Pete asks, leaning forward. He sounds like an asshole but his eyes remain kind, crows-feet pinching at the corners. “Was it all that talk of chickens?”

Patrick laughs, almost choking on the banana. “I have no idea what I was talking about last night. I'm sorry I put you through that.” Patrick finishes up the fruit and waits for Pete to shrug before he perches on the side of the desk. “So really, what's happened since yesterday?”

Pete fills Patrick in some more. Joe scanned the footage from the club and they managed to screen a shot of the guy they're looking for. They didn't get any hits from files the police computers hold, so he's not got a record, but they had the priest come in and he's confirmed it's the same man he's seen in his church in recent weeks.

“That wild long-shot turned out to be true then. Shit,” Patrick says. If he's honest, nine times out of ten helpful civilians usually come up with bullshit and he's always weary of their help. “But you have no idea who he is?”

“None. We're gonna send some plain cars to the church, see if we can pick him out. He's killed so recently that I figure he'll be turning to God again, right?' Pete looks to Patrick, who shrugs his shoulder.

Patrick tries to get his head back in the game. “I guess. Something pissed him off with that last kid, though. What was his name? Any background?”

“Minor vandalism offense when he was a kid, but he's clean like the rest. Jake Jones, twenty, student at the art school nearby.” Pete's knees are jostling and he's biting his lip in nerves. Patrick just leans over and puts a restful hand on his shoulder. 

“What were his movements like coming from the club? They left together, right? But like, together together or less friendly?”

"They looked to just be talking, honestly. It didn't seem sexual, I've looked it over with various people too and they all say the same. It didn't look like he was picking him up. They were just walking.”

“That's weird.” Patrick tries to think it through, scratching at his jaw lightly as he does, keeping a hand on Pete's should to try and calm him. “You think they talked beforehand maybe? Agreed to meet? Why would you willingly walk down the streets with a stranger that you weren't planning on screwing? It's crude, but it's true, especially at that time of night.”

“Dunno. I figured drugs maybe, but no paraphernalia was found on Jones and there's been no link to narcotics before this. It's fucking me over, man. Like. What the fuck's going on?” Pete rolls his head in his hands and Patrick watches for a few moments. “These kids, all these murdered boys, they're not naïve. Stupid and horny maybe, but when you talk to their parents and their friends, they don't live in some alternate universe where they think the world smells like fucking roses.”

“I know, but we'll figure it out and we'll catch him, I swear. Honestly Pete this is the only thing keeping me from losing it right now, so we will catch this asshole.” Patrick takes a breath and realizes he does that a lot recently; breathes in deep hoping it will change the heaviness in his heart. He's not sure if he's helping himself all that much, but Pete looks a lot calmer.

 

Pete comes over that night, with a bag of groceries and Patrick isn't sure about it at all. “Are you sure don't have commitments?” he asks, not able to bring himself to say family. “You don't have to be here.”

“I facetime'd my kids earlier, and during the heavy cases I'm never really expected at home,” Pete shrugs, dumping the bags on the small kitchen counter and unpacking quickly. There's a lot of TV dinners that he's sliding into Patrick's refrigerator, and decent pile of fruit too. Maybe he's pissed that Patrick keeps eating his food at work, but probably not. Patrick guesses he's just a good guy. “You eat one of these when you come home from work, alright? At least then you'll be eating one meal a day.”

Patrick nods his head, thinking he just heard his mom talking via Pete's mouth. “You bought bleach,” Patrick says instead, focus sliding to the non-edible contents on the counter. “What for?”

“Dude, I cannot have people thinking I'm a bottle blond.” Pete gives an awkward wink and Patrick laughs, nodding his head.

Patrick's never dyed anyone's hair before, but the instructions appear easy enough, and it gives him something to think about, something to do. “Just get the roots, man,” Pete says and Patrick's trying, but it's not like he has a whole lot of hair to work with. He feels bad when Pete starts moaning about a burning scalp but this is his prerogative. 

“I used to cut Andy's hair for him. It was long for years, but then he let me style it and so I thought he looked very handsome,” Patrick says, focusing on massaging the treatment to the crown of Pete's head. It's turning the hair a weird color, but he doesn't say anything. “We always fought about his beard though. Literally all our biggest arguments were about that damn thing.”

“You didn't like it?” Pete looks up at Patrick from where he's sitting, brown eyes peeking out from his dark lashes. Patrick tries not to think about how it makes him feel, and answers the question instead. 

“I liked it, but he would never fucking tame it, you know? It'd get all scraggly and the cuteness would get sucked up by the irritation it left on my skin. In the end, I'd sit on his lap and he'd let me neaten it every so often. I think that was mostly just a ploy though.” Patrick can feel the heat of the hair product through the flimsy gloves but he doesn't stop his hand movements as he talks.

Pete laughs deep in his chest. “A ploy to get you on his lap?”

“Absolutely,” Patrick snaps the plastic cap over Pete's head, tucking it behind his ears and pulling the gloves off. “Like you, he was very invested in my thighs. He liked it when I straddled him.” Patrick blinks when he realizes what he's saying and he shakes his head “I think I lost my filter recently, I didn't mean to tell you that.”

“You kinky bastard,” Pete smirks, even though Patrick's pretty certain there's nothing kinky in what he just said. “Do you feel better when you talk about him?”

“A few weeks ago I couldn't even say his name aloud, so I guess it's an improvement.' Patrick shrugs, sitting back down again. He stares down at his hands for a few moments before looking up at Pete. “I'll go fix us some dinner.” 

Apparently Patrick does something wrong with Pete's hair, something to do with toner, and it goes an odd purple color. Patrick doesn't think it's totally his fault and he actually sort of likes it, but Pete mostly blames him as he scrubs at the purple-gray hairs fresh from the shower.

“I did say I've never used bleach before,” Patrick says. Pete smiles at him though, like he doesn't really care. He just falls on the couch next to Patrick, smelling like his shampoo and dressed in one of Patrick's own shirts; it's a weird feeling Patrick gets in his stomach and he doesn't like it. He looks at Patrick's TV for a few moments, before looking up at the wall again. 

“You're literally the worse decorator I've ever seen,” Pete mentions, looking up at the teal colored blobs on the ceiling.

“I don't know... I think you could blame the whiskey in my system at why it's so bad. If you don't like it, you can fix it.” Patrick tries to defend his decorating skills, but even in the low light of the evening he can see what a shit job he did.

“I might do,” Pete shrugs. “But not tonight. I'm pretty beat.”

They sit on the couch for the rest of the night. Patrick thought they'd go over the case together, but they don't bring it up at all. Patrick wants to think on it a bit more. Sometimes he's better at internalizing his thoughts before speaking aloud, so instead they watch a movie together instead; some terrible _Die Hard_ copy that they both secretly love more than they let on.

Penny hops up into Patrick's lap before the end; clingy and warm. Patrick just strokes her, half an ear on the shitty movie, and tries to imagine Andy's face if he ever clocked eyes on Penny. After a while he feels his eyes start to drop, something that just doesn't happen anymore. Usually his mind starts clicks over into the past, thinking back to everything he's lost in the past few months.

“I think I'm gonna go to bed,” Patrick says quietly once the credits start rolling. He stands up and tucks Penny to his chest, watching as Pete gets up too, his hair finally dry if a little purple.

“Have a hot shower,” Pete says. “It should help you relax. I'll wait in the bedroom for you.”

Patrick isn't sure; is almost worried that he's going to wake up to Pete jerking off over him. That would weird to the point Patrick would seriously think about quitting the case. Patrick knows Pete's attracted to him, but they've put whatever went on between them to the back burner and Patrick desperately needs it to stay there.

Patrick spends a good deal of time in the shower, staring down at his body without really looking. His fingers brush over the outline of his ribs these days and that's not something he's used to. He's going to try and take better care of himself, give his liver a rest and feed himself with food that he's sourced from somewhere other than Wentz. He feels bad about the food Pete's stocked his cupboards with, that he's gone to so much effort when he still barely knows Patrick at all. 

Patrick pulls on the pajamas warming on the heater and scrubs at his hair until it's just slightly damp. He looks a mess; circles under his eyes and patches of stubble growing on his chin. He hasn't looked at himself in a long time now, and he's never really liked what he sees, but he hardly recognizes himself.

Pete's already in bed when Patrick heads over, and he stands awkwardly in the doorway for a moment. Penny's looking up at him from beneath her paws at the foot of the bed, and Pete looks up from his phone to smile.

“Are you getting in or what?” Pete says and Patrick refocuses, nodding his head. He pulls his glasses off, dropping them down to the bedside table before climbing into the bed. He rests back, wriggling his shoulders against the bed covers for a few moments, trying to stop the awkwardness seeping in.

“So, I guess this is goodnight,” he says and then laughs dryly. “I've had your dick in my ass, I don't know why this part feels weird.”

“Why are you equating our terrible time on your kitchen floor with taking a nap together?” Pete snorts, but he clicks his phone off and rolls onto his belly, looking at Patrick side on.

“It's not a nap, it's bedtime,” Patrick says, “I feel like those are two very different things.”

“Well, whatever, Stump. Shut your eyes and go to sleep, you need it,” Pete says and Patrick really can't deny that so he does as he's told and waits for the dark to wash over him.

Andy's in Patrick's dream and he's not dead. Usually he is, usually Patrick's crawling over to his body, crying into his lifeless chest and waking himself up; knowing there's not relief in consciousness. 

This time they're in their old bed, cocooned beneath their heavy blankets. Patrick's looking up at Andy and smiling; smiling at the crinkles nestled beside his eyes and the softness of his voice as he whispers Patrick's name over and over.

“You're never gonna leave me, right?” Patrick says to him, and it's like he knows the truth, that Andy's gone. He's smiling at Patrick, looking at him with love, one hand curling over Patrick's cheek, thumb catching the dampness under Patrick's lashes. “Please, don't leave me.”

“ _Patrick_ ,” is all Andy says over and over before it fades out to nothing.

Patrick jolts awake and it's like he's already choking, like he felt Andy against him for the first time in months, but now he's gone.

“Hey, it's alright.” Patrick hears from behind him. He can't see Pete properly but he can feel him and Patrick can feel that he's shaking as he turns to face Pete. Patrick doesn't want to fall apart in front of him, but he's not sure he can help it. “Shh, Patrick. It's okay it was just a dream.”

“He was alive. He was with me and I thought,” Patrick says, but then he starts crying, anxiety catching in his chest and spilling out. Pete holds him close, arms over his shoulders and pulling him downwards. It should be weird, but it's not – mostly Patrick finds it comforting. He gives up on fighting it and lets go. “I'm never gonna see him again. I don't know how to deal with that.”

“I'm sorry, Patrick.” Pete's voice is slow, not answering Patrick's non-question. “Just remember to breathe.”

 

Patrick wakes up feeling like he slept well, despite the nightmare early on. He's snuggled up against Pete, hand over his chest and head against his side. Patrick likes waking up with someone else, has missed it in the months he's been alone. Pete’s awake, Patrick can tell by his breathing, and so Patrick stares up at him from beneath his own eyelashes, blinks and rubs his hand against Pete’s chest, smiling when Pete realizes he's awake.

“Hey buddy, you sleep alright?” Pete asks. Patrick nods his head, wriggling to sit up and fight off the sleep trying to pull him back under. He doesn't want to leave the bed, doesn't want to lose the feeling of a warm body next to him.

“Yeah. I'm sorry about, you know, the first part.” Patrick rubs at his eyes, scratching at the gunk that collected from his wet eyes.

“I was trying to wake you up from it, but you fell asleep pretty quick after. I think you settled after that.” Pete reaches a hand out and strokes down the hair sticking up at the crown of Patrick's head. His fingers are warm and Patrick leans into them, still a little sleepy.

“Yeah. It's weird, I don't know. Like, when you're here I sleep better. It's dumb.” Patrick shakes his head, finally able to move from Pete’s hand in his hair. “But thank you. I don't know why this helps, it just does.”

Pete smiles at him, stupid purple-gray hair standing up on end. This is probably unwise, Patrick thinks, the more awake he gets. Pete wears a wedding ring and Patrick thinks this makes him a horrible person; taking a husband and father away from his family just so that he doesn't have to deal with his demons alone. 

 

They head to work in separate cars which Patrick thinks probably makes him feel even shittier about the situation. They're acting like there's something to hide – Patrick feels like he has something to hide – and he goes between thinking he definitely has done something wrong and wondering whether he actually has or not. Apart from that one time in his kitchen there's been nothing sexual; just some crying and cuddling.

“That's some wacky hair, dude,” Joe says to Pete, teeth tearing at the toast in his hand. Pete rubs a hand through his hair, looking briefly to Patrick staring at them from across the office, before he straightens his back and claps a hand on Joe's shoulder.

“Yeah, never use an out-of-hours colorist, man. They're not getting my services again,” Pete announces loudly. Patrick looks down at his knees, keeping his smile as tiny as possible.

Patrick's left alone for a while. The team has increased since Jones' murder, and there's a flurry of cops flying in and out of the room; media being handled by a separate group. There's people higher than Pete floating around now too; it's still his investigation, but they've called bigger guns in to help out. 

Patrick's been staring at the footage of the man they're after for at least an hour. There's barely anything to see, his eyes shadowed by the hat and his dark collar pulled up to his chin. The priest recognized the long black coat he was wearing when they asked if he could ID him, so it's unlikely he set out to kill that night; not when he's been so careful previously.

Patrick has another brainwave that has him stumbling over his feet to head to Pete’s office. Pete’s got someone talking at him, but he shoos them away when he sees Patrick standing there.

“What's up, Rick?” Pete asks and Patrick's only slightly taken aback because only family call him that and it's weird how things are starting to sound familiar with Pete; like he knows him so well. He gets that jelly feeling in his stomach again, that he has to try and ignore.

“Uh,” he says, lost in his thoughts for a few moments before he remembers what he came here for. “We're sticking this guy in his early to mid fifties, right?”

Pete nods his head. “Yep, you don't think that's correct?”

“I think it's right, but I think generally most parents that are hitting their fifties have kids in their what – late teens to early twenties?” Patrick sees Pete attempting to follow Patrick's lead, but mostly he's just nodding his head and looking concerned. “I just think it might be worth looking into the fact that this could be some kind of eye for eye killing.”

“But these kids aren't linked at all. They grew up in different towns, sometimes different states,” Pete says slowly. He takes the photo from Patrick's hand and stares at it a few times. Patrick just sighs in frustration.

“Maybe he had a young son, probably fair-haired, maybe questioning their sexuality. Maybe they got hurt, got killed and so this guy is doing the same to kids he think deserve it more or that remind him of his son. I don't think it's that far-fetched.”

“That's a really shitty reason,” Pete points out, but Patrick's pretty much of the opinion there's never a good enough reason for murder. He's seen people kill at the roll of a dice, this makes more sense than that ever could.

“How long have you worked homicide? You know there doesn't need to be reasoning behind this kind of shit,” Patrick says and Pete rolls his eyes, flipping his middle finger to Patrick.

“It just makes me feel better thinking there's decent reasoning behind it. And usually there is, killing kids that remind him of a dead son? That's a fucking long-shot and you know it.” Pete sits back in his chair, arms crossed over his stomach. Patrick has a sudden flash of how he started sobbing all over Pete in the middle of the night and spikes of embarrassment bite at his cheeks.

“So was the priest having relevant information for us and that's turned out to be an integral piece of this fucking investigation. Look, grief fucks people up. When Andy died I just snapped; I was burning beds and talking about chickens, you know?” Patrick smiles when Pete wrinkles his nose up at the last part. “When you lose someone you love, you lose a part of yourself. He's obviously not getting off on the killings, so we have to work with what we have. It meets up with the fact that he's lighting a candle in the church for someone.”

“Could be for his victims,” Pete says weakly before his shoulders sag with defeat. “But I don't know.” He folds his hands over his face and groans in frustration for a few moments. “I swear if you're right about this I'll...well. I don't know what, but I'm keeping my eye on you, Stump. I don't think you're to be trusted.” 

“Right,” Patrick says, blinking at Pete from behind his glasses. “I can't even tell if you're joking or not.”

“Yeah it was a joke.” Pete winces, and Patrick almost wants to feel bad, but he stops himself. He doesn't think Pete would want him to feel bad about it. “Tomorrow's your day off, right?”

Patrick nods. “It's supposed to be, but I took off to sort my house out so I should probably make it up.”

“Nah, I think we're just going to look into this information, try and see if there's been any hate crimes against boys not linked to the case. We'll check medical and death records. I honestly don't need you for that, but I'll keep you informed. We can talk on the phone if you like.”

“Okay, if you're sure.” Patrick stares at his feet for a few moments, ignoring how his stomach seems to be freaking out. He wants to make a joke about not being desperate enough to phone Pete, but he doesn't want to jinx it. In the end he just nods his head.

 

Patrick has emails he should be responding to. He should perhaps finally contact everyone he cut ties with after the funeral. He should get around to all the missed calls Kevin left before he finds his older brother on his doorstep with a fresh set of tupperware meals. He should say something to his mom, who he hasn't spoken to in months now.

He doesn't do any of that. He just lays in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He tries not to let thoughts of Andy crush him completely. He thought he was stabilizing a little, but he can barely think about moving today. He keeps thinking back on the dream he had; that he's never going to get those moments back. He hasn't just lost Andy as a partner, but also someone that loves every fault in his DNA; that doesn't care that he's short with an unpredictable fuse; who wouldn't mind that Patrick's so clumsy and grumpy before he's caffeinated. 

There's the sound of a clatter from outside his apartment, disturbing his thoughts. Then his front door bursts open. Patrick stays where he is; if it's a burglar it's a fucking odd time to sneak in, but Patrick's pretty sure he can handle it. He has Penny yapping loudly beside him anyway, defending him.

It turns out to be Vicky who explains, “Oh I found your spare key in a kitchen drawer last week.” She grabs up Penny into her arms and falls onto the bed next to him. “I remembered you saying today was your day off, so I thought we could hangout.”

“Okay. I haven't got out of bed yet.” Patrick frowns and looks over at the alarm clock to see it's one in the afternoon. He isn't sure when that happened. “I keep meaning to get up and get breakfast but then I start thinking.”

“Wisconsin thoughts?” she says softly, passing Penny over to him like she's a cuddly toy. Patrick thinks she is a pretty good one as he nestles his face into her fur for a few moments.

“Today I miss everything about him. The sound of his voice, the way he looked at me and how I could tell him everything; even the weird shit I'd think up late at night. I miss him in bed too,” Patrick says, adding the last part on a whim. He thinks Vicky's the kind of friend that'd like to hear that, and he's not wrong when he hears her try and hold back a cackle. “I miss his dick just as much as I miss his smile, I guess it's too disrespectful to tell people that.”

“You're telling me,” she points out, elbowing his side. She presses tight against him, hand resting gently on his chest, the other propping her head up.

“You're not most people, you're pretty weird actually but. You know. That's what I keep thinking of.” Patrick turns to her and smiles. Everything hurts today, like he's been left out in the rain and he can't dry off, but he feels like she could be a distraction. “Tell me a story.”

“I can tell you a phallic-themed story – sounds like you're in the mood for that.” She smiles at him, winking softly before continuing. “One time I dated this real son-of-a-bitch. Mostly because of his dick.” Patrick twists his head to look at her, wondering where this is going and whether he should be worried. “Anyway, I knew he was fucking around but I didn't want to give it up so I bought one of those kits, you know, where you make a dildo from their cock? Ended up keeping the dick and losing the asshole. It worked out pretty well for me.”

“I'm not sure if I'm better off knowing that or not,” Patrick laughs, smiling down at his dog and definitely not looking up at Vicky. “Andy and I never got around to doing that, maybe we should have.”

“It's too late now,” she says to him like he doesn't know. Patrick laughs because it makes him hurt a little bit, even if it was never something they would dream of doing. “You know what it's not too late for? A smoothie.”

Patrick groans. “Jesus Christ, don't you think we're too old for smoothies? I'm too sad for a smoothie. I don't want to leave this bed.” 

“Fuck you, I got your whiny texts last night about how you wanted to start eating properly and get healthy. This is me trying to help.” Vicky sits up, looking ready to argue her point with him.

“I was in a good mood last night, but now I'm thinking about sex and how I'm never gonna have it again.” Patrick thinks back to Pete and how stupid he was to let it happen. He still feels bad; he knows Pete’s forgiven him for leading him on, but generally Patrick's tries not to be that much of an asshole. “Not good sex, at least.”

“Not if you screw your boss again you won't, but come on. You need to get up, go have a shower and I'll buy you a grown up smoothie.” Patrick's not planning on getting up at all, but Vicky is strong and she yanks on his arm hard enough that he thinks she'll put it from his socket if he doesn't go with the movement.

He slouches off to the shower and finds he feels better once he's standing under the warm spray. He didn't sleep much last night, which he's starting to think is maybe more to do with being alone than anything else. When Pete’s around the nightmares don't go away, but he can fall asleep after and it's not restless. 

Patrick stumbles into some clothes and out into the main part of his apartment to see Vicky flicking through his box of vinyls. “Were these yours or his?” she asks him, picking up a Herbie Hancock that Andy picked out for him a few years ago.

“Mine. He was into comics more and games. I didn't understand his weird games like he didn't understand my white boy funk,” Patrick smiles at her, trying not to let any specific memory suck him under. “So, are you gonna buy me a smoothie or what?”

 

Patrick stands by his assumption that all smoothies are gross by the time they're finished at the hut Vicky takes him to. He appreciates that's she's taking the time to hang out with him and put up with his whining because she must have better things to do. He's in a terrible mood, but she makes it better for the time that they're together. He's unbelievably grateful that she got him out of his bed for a few hours at least.

 

Patrick still doesn't want to phone Pete when the evening starts crawling on. He's home alone, watching bad TV and poking at one of the meals Pete bought him, trying to force it down even when his stomach and throat clenches up. Eventually though, he feels his restless nerves kicking in, and even getting on his knees to play with Penny doesn't help.

“You know what this is like?” Patrick says down the phone to Pete. He waits until it's ten-thirty at night because Patrick figures Pete would've put his kids to bed by that point. It makes him feel nasty and pretty gross, but it just adds to the myriad of feelings he's been carrying around all day.

“Oh god-- this isn't another chicken thing, right?” Pete asks and Patrick shakes his head, forgetting that he's alone, that Pete can't see him. It makes him laugh though, and he bites his lip to quieten his giggle.

“No, it's like when you're at the dentist, you know--” Patrick starts, but he hears Pete groan loudly in faux annoyance.

“It _is_ a chicken thing then, alright, fine-- tell me.”

Patrick laughs. “It's not a chicken thing. It's just.” Patrick takes a deep breath before starting. “You know when you're drooling at the dentist and so they have that suction thing they put in your mouth and it kinda makes it a little bit better? I just want one of those. Suction out all of these wet horrible feelings; I wanna be dry of them, you know? Today's been full of wet feelings.”

Pete’s voice softens. “Oh, you've been crying? Or you're just feeling soggy and sad.”

“The second one—Just, it sits in my chest, and all the thoughts in my head flood and it feels like I'm drowning. My friend Vicky came over and took me out for a while and it sorta helped, but now they're back. It's just frustrating. I don't know. I probably shouldn't tell you this.”

“No. It's cool, man. I know it.” Pete stops talking and Patrick hears the sound of a door closing on his end of the line. “I know that feeling well.”

“How do you know it?” Patrick asks quietly, breath catching in his throat. He listens to Pete think things through with a quiet hesitation before answering.

“My parents would tell me I was born with a black cloud over my head – like it was well intentioned – I think they were trying to tell me it wasn't my fault that I'm built the way I am. Everything is either super high or really low and I was angry about it for a really long time. I carried it around and I did stupid things because I didn't think there'd ever be anything in my life worth living for.”

“You wanted to be dead?” Patrick doesn't like the thought of that – partly for selfish reason, but also because he likes Pete outside of whatever they have. He's a good guy, and Patrick thinks he's probably a good father too, he likes to think so.

“I'm not sure. I think it was more that I didn't care about living. I still feel like everyone sees me as a joke, like I'm thirty-five, I've been in this department eight years and this is the first case I've taken the reigns on and it feels like everyone's waiting on me to fuck up.” Pete’s voice comes through hesitant, like he's ashamed of himself and his thoughts. Patrick wishes they were face to face, so that maybe he could treat Pete in the same way he's treated him when he's been down.

“I don't think you're a joke. I think you dress like a joke, but you're like-- You know.” Patrick can't really finish it because he knows he'll make it sound terrible and awkward. He wishes he had some of the charm that Andy did, he was always good at lightening to moment in ways Patrick never could.

“Yeah,” Pete says, and Patrick hopes he knows that he was trying to be complimentary. “Sorry for taking over your woe with mine. That was shitty.”

“Just be grateful you can't out-whine my misery right now. Plus, I offload on you a lot. You can offload on me too if it helps.” Patrick bites at his thumbnail, wonders if he'll even be any good as a shoulder to cry on, or whether he'll just make things worse for Pete.

“Okay,” Pete says and he's smiling. Patrick doesn't know how he knows, he just does. “You're a good guy, Patrick. You don't deserve this shit.”

“And yet somehow it landed on me,” Patrick sighs, feeling it all the way down into his chest before he tries to shake it away. “Has there been any progress at work?”

Pete seems grateful for the conversation shift and he fills Patrick in on it all. There's a big pool to cross-match; looking for one possibly dead kid with barely anything to go on is risky, but they're pulling on a few leads and Patrick's got a feeling that it's going to work out well this time. He has an instinctual feeling about it.

“I guess I'll see you at work tomorrow,” Patrick says, when he looks up at the clock to see that they've been talking for over an hour. 

“You think you'll sleep?” Pete asks, but he already knows the answer to that and Patrick isn't going to beat around it.

“Not at all, but thanks for asking,” he laughs, hanging up the same time as Pete.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last part...thanks for all the comments etc. This turned out far longer than I planned, but it's finally done!

Pete says he has a present for Patrick in his office the next day. It sounds like a euphemism and Patrick swallows nervously, thinking they were past that. It turns out to be a squeaky toy chicken and Patrick laughs so much his stomach aches. He hasn't done that in months. It's not even that funny, but he can't help but double over, clutching his stomach.

“Now I can have chickens,” he says, holding the toy and squeezing the middle to hear the noise again. Penny will like it if nothing else. “ _Shoot_ , I don't have a farmhouse anymore.”

“Dang it.” Pete purses his lips, but his eyes crinkle up with the joke. Patrick's never really had friends like that before – that get him like that. It makes Patrick's heart tighten and flex.

“Thank you. I'm gonna--” Patrick doesn't know what else to say so he just squeaks it one more time. Pete laughs too loud, his hand clapping on Patrick's shoulder, fingers pressing down into tense muscle.

“You're fucking awesome,” he says, looking concerned, like he's suddenly had a revelation. Patrick just nods and pushes his glasses up his nose, ignoring any signals that go off in his head at Pete’s expression. Pete shakes his head, loosening up again as he changes the subject and drops his hand. “Oh yeah. By the way I booked us in at the range. This investigation is heating up and I need to make sure you're able to handle yourself if we end up in a situation.”

Patrick turns on him straight away, one-hundred percent uncool with that comment. “Pete, I will do more damage if you force this issue. I told you from the get-go that I don't carry a weapon.”

“You just need me to show you how to use one properly.” Pete flicks his dark eyes up to Patrick before lifting his jacket to flash his holster. “Look, you're the psychology dude, you should know the more you talk yourself out of something the worse you are at it.”

“You haven't seen me at the range, though,” Patrick says quietly. He stares at Pete, waiting on the next argument, but instead Pete squints at him.

“Do you not trust yourself with one?” Pete says quietly, his hand on Patrick's wrist and Patrick doesn't know what he means until he gets it. 

“I'm not suicidal, _Jesus_. I just... I barely scraped the test when I took it and I'm just so fucking terrible. Andy inherited some guns from his dad, but he wouldn't even keep them in the house because of how little he trusted me around them. I err on the side of clumsy and so.” Patrick lets out a puffy breath, hands on his hips, staring pointedly at Pete.

“Come on.” Pete tugs Patrick's elbow and really, he could say no; could tell Pete to fuck off and he could go find something else to do, but he doesn't want to. It's fun being with him. It makes him feel something other than crushing numbness. 

Patrick decides after much deliberation that firing ranges really don't differ across the country. Patrick lines himself up, protective goggles on as he stares at the target. He raises his arm, gun between his hands and sighs heavily. He feels Pete against his back and he's close to leaning into him before he catches himself. 

“Stop sticking your ass out,” Pete says and Patrick turns to protest, able to hear beneath the earbuds tucked into his ears. He feels Pete's hands on his hips, pushing them forward until he's standing straight. The warm hands move to his shoulders, pulling them from Patrick's natural hunch. “Breath through it, man.”

“You're making this a lot more homoerotic than it needs to be,” Patrick mutters, but he fires once, lowering the gun gently to see that... he got the shoulder again. "Dammit." 

“Christ, how did you miss that?” Pete says, not helping the situation. Patrick leans back slightly because it makes him feel better and Pete doesn't pull away, his hands taking a longer route up Patrick's sides to slide to his elbows, realigning his movements. 

“Shoot on a breath, remember? Take your time to focus,” Pete says and Patrick nods. It's not like he's doing this for anyone other than Pete. He shoots once and misses. His body seizes up in shame, but Pete pulls him out again, shifting his limbs and pressing on his stomach to tighten his muscles.

It doesn't go too well, but Patrick at least gets the target this time. A few times in the belly and then once in the shoulder. It's terrible by his own admission – but actually good by his standards – and he turns around to smile at Pete, jumping on the spot a little bit. Pete smiles back just as wide, hand still curved over Patrick's elbow.

 

When they get back to the station, they're sucked right back into the swing of things. Joe's found a kid – a dead kid called Jack Larkson. He'd been found strangled by a male lover, Liam Weller, who confessed and was serving out his sentence. A case so dead and buried it wasn't flagged up on their search previously.

“Anyway, the mom died when the kid was three according to his records and he was raised by his father. We looked him up and bingo – I'd say he's a positive match to the guy on camera. We're looking into tracking him now,” Joe explains to Patrick and Pete, the three of them alone in Pete's office.

“You got any idea who he is?” Patrick looks up from the screen, watching Joe tug a hand through his hair, looking beat.

“There's nothing on him, but he's a native to the state, worked retail management for a few years-- I had some guys check his name out online. Brian Larkson...he's clean though; a LinkedIn page, but that's all.”

“We need to find him,” Pete says, looking to Patrick for confirmation, who simply nods his head. “You were right again.”

“Looks like it.” Patrick feels a warm rush of adrenaline wash over him. They've almost got him; they've got a name, and once they find him, this case will be over and Patrick will have helped. “I don't think he'll fight arrest, he knows you're coming for him.”

He doesn't want to think about after; what he's going to do then.

 

Penny really appreciates the squeaky chicken that Pete bought them. Patrick's not sure how many times he can play fetch with her across the floor of his apartment, but she comes back time and time again; tail fluffed up in the air, the toy too large for her tiny mouth. Patrick only pauses their game when there's a buzz at the door.

It's Pete looking upset; his mouth pinched tight and his eyes drooping slightly. Patrick steps back and allows him in. He notices the can of white paint in his hand, but doesn't say anything about it.

“What have I done to help this investigation? You did all the work, and what you didn't Joe and the rest of the guys did.” Pete asks immediately, dropping the can to the coffee table and falling onto Patrick's couch, head in his hands.

“That's not true.” Patrick sits down beside Pete, ignoring the yap Penny gives when he doesn't restart their game. He listens to her little claws tapping across the floor and the heavier sound of her flopping down out of sight in the kitchenette. “You're the one telling everyone what to do. You're the boss, not the action guy.”

“You pretty much found him yourself,” Pete says and Patrick wonders if he's this annoying when he's whining. 

“It's my job to give you a profile which is what I did,” Patrick says slowly. He puts his hand on Pete’s shoulder, rubbing firm muscle, trying not to notice how he can see the dip each side of Pete’s vertebrae through his shirt. He's so well-built, not at Andy's level, but so much more taut than Patrick could ever be. Patrick forces his eyeline away, onto Pete’s profile instead. “What's the matter?”

“I feel like the team is carrying me.” Pete turns to Patrick, looking desperate for some form of validation. Patrick can't truly pity a guy that's just found a fucking serial killer, but he thinks maybe that's not really the problem. It's maybe a bit like Patrick and wanting chickens without really wanting them. 

“You put your trust in me when I was a dick, when we didn't know each other. You trusted me even though I probably came across as a really weird little man, your instincts and faith in me meant you gave me a chance to do my job properly. So maybe you haven't been as active on this case, but that's because you're like the manager, you know? You're the strategical guy this time around.”

“I don't know...” Pete mutters, but it sounds like he just wants to be petulant now. 

“So I'm thinking this isn't really about the case, but something else,” Patrick says. “Which is okay. If you need cheering up I can tell you a story that my friend Vicky told me.”

“Who is your friend Vicky? I didn't think you had friends,” Pete says. Patrick elbows him in the side.

“Don't talk to a mourner like that. She's my friend – well she was my barmaid once, but now she's just my friend,” Patrick starts, crossing his arms, seeing the teasing look on Pete’s face. It makes his own lips tug up into a tight smile.

“Barmaids aren't friends, they're underpaid therapists.” Pete's smirking at him, and Patrick sticks his tongue out, leaning against Pete ever so slightly. “But tell me your story.”

“She is my friend.” Patrick makes sure Pete knows that before he continues. “Well according to her – and this isn't something I knew – but basically you can get these kits that help you make sex toys from real life dicks.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Pete’s face goes red, like he really hadn't been expecting this shift in conversation. Patrick hadn't been either; he's not sure why it came out. It must be his shitty filter playing up again.

“You wanted a story so I'm giving you one.” Patrick stares ahead, and not at where Pete’s probably giving him a horrified look. “But like. If you think you'll make a terrible detective because you're _oh so shitty_ at finding out the truth maybe you could start a line of home grown dicks. I've sampled your product first hand and it's nice.”

“No-- hold up. You don't say that to someone!” Pete's voice rises a few decibels and Patrick turns to look at the mock outrage on Pete’s face. “You don't tell someone their dick is 'nice' in that condescending way. Honestly, if anyone was to complain about that night it should be me. You just laid there asking me to choke you. That was less than nice. _And you puked after._ ”

“I was just reacting to a stressful situation,” Patrick bites back, but he's smirking and so is Pete. “All I'm saying is you have a _nice_ dick so if the day job doesn't work out...”

Pete leans against him, laughing broadly for a few moments. His mood's lightened now, and Patrick's glad for it. “I'll stick to this for now, I guess.”

“Good.” Patrick smiles at him, feels his body pressed against him and tries to block out any guilty thoughts that sneak into his brain. “If you wanna talk seriously though, we can.”

“It's fine, dude. It's just my head and all the thoughts whizzing around.” Pete taps his temple, touching the terrible dye job Patrick gave him. “Is it cool if I stay here tonight?”

There's something in that, Patrick supposes, but he's not going to dig where he's not needed. “Sure. It means I'll sleep some.” He pauses for a moment, before looking to the tin on the coffee table. “Are you gonna tell me what the white paint's for?”

Maybe Pete’s one of those dads soothed by DIY because he bought the paint to specifically clean up Patrick's shitty decorating job. Patrick hovers awkwardly as Pete climbs the ladder, taping off the top of Patrick's painted walls, before starting to clean up the ceiling with the white paint. Patrick watches, trying to be silently helpful, but decides he's only getting in the way.

“You don't have to do this,” Patrick says to him, deciding to watch from the couch instead. Pete turns to look at him over his shoulder and a splatter of thick paint hits him square in the forehead.

“This relaxes me, dude. I'm in a much better mood now.” He wipes at his forehead and then laughs. Pete looks up at his handy work, at how he's cleaned Patrick's ceiling up properly, and nods his head.

Patrick orders pizza whilst Pete cleans up in the bathroom. He flicks around with the TV as Pete showers, before he has a sudden urge to tear his hair out. He misses Andy so much he has to sit down on the floor, just to try and regulate his breathing. He tries not to hate himself for not seeing it coming, but at least he's neither puking or crying; it's just more of that quiet inside pain he's growing accustomed to.

Pete catches him trying to recover on the couch, head in his hands, and he sits beside him, hand warm at the base of Patrick's spine. “What a sorry pair we are, huh?”

Patrick laughs when he gets his breath back. “Right. I just miss him so much I can't breathe. It sneaks up on me,” Patrick answers quietly. Pete doesn't respond with words, but he holds Patrick's hand in his own, fingers pressing to Patrick's palm. There's speckles of paint over his tanned hands and Patrick rubs at them until he catches himself. He spends the rest of the night frowning at his TV, inhaling fresh paint and ignoring the stupid ache.

Patrick nearly falls asleep against Pete's shoulder after they've finished the pizza. He's jolted awake by Penny, who decides she's been ignored for long enough and squeaks that fucking chicken in front of him again. Patrick jumps in shock, hearing Pete snigger next to him.

“I hate you for this,” Patrick says, grabbing the toy and tossing it into the kitchen, watching Penny skitter away after it. 

It's starting to get familiar, having Pete in his bed. He always takes the left side, and Patrick isn't obtuse enough to forget that's where Andy used to sleep. Instead he sits up in the bed, looking at Pete laying flat down, t-shirt on to keep things somehow platonic.

Patrick slides down the bed, no longer feeling embarrassed as he turns to face Pete. He stares at Pete’s chest for a few seconds, watching the slow rise and fall as he breathes. It's soothing and so Patrick reaches his hand out, placing it on Pete's chest. 

“You can talk about him to me if you like. If you think it might help the anxiety,” Pete says after a small pause. His hand touches Patrick's on his chest, turning it over so he can slide their fingers together. Patrick doesn't move it away, just tries to shuffle through all the thoughts in his head.

“He used to call me his little anomaly,” Patrick says, picking a memory out. “I was the one thing in his life that didn't match the rest; I'm unfit, I'm not straight edge, I put too much belief in society and shit like that, but he liked that about me. I had no self-esteem and I could be pretty neurotic, but he calmed me down and made me see things the other way. I think we anchored each other.” Patrick squeezes Pete's hand, feeling his fingers press down just as hard. “You know in those movies where this stuck up girl falls in love with, like, a country boy and everyone hates her because they think she thinks she's too good for him?”

“Uh...yeah. I guess,” Pete answers. He's tracing Patrick's knuckles with his thumb, where Patrick's hand is still resting on his chest. It feels good, Patrick doesn't want him to stop.

“I think his friends thought I was a bit like that... I _wasn't_ , but I moved to the middle of nowhere to be with him and they didn't trust me. I was just naive.” Patrick loses himself in the memories of nearly a decade ago, of being a stupid kid pinning his hopes on frail foundations. He can hardly believe how well it turned out, ignoring the end part.

“Did you get their trust?” Pete’s other hand slides around Patrick's forearm, brushing the light hairs on his arm. Patrick wants to cry from it all, but he holds back.

“I think so. But this is what I always end up thinking about: if I'd have been killed he'd have been devastated, I know, but his friends would've got him through it. They'd have picked him up and fixed him up and he'd have moved on and found happiness. I've never had friends like that.”

Pete doesn't say anything, but his fingers don't stop stroking over Patrick's hand and arm and it's so nice and he's so kind and Patrick would never have thought he'd have a friend like this.

“Andy always gave into me, he always let me have my way,” Patrick hums thoughtfully. "He spoiled me and now he's gone and no one will ever treat me like that again.”

“Maybe you'll see him again one day, in the next life or whatever comes next,” Pete says softly. Patrick likes the sound of it beneath his arm and he wriggles closer, letting Pete put an arm over his shoulder. 

“He didn't believe in that stuff. I think that's why I find it so hard, because I know I'll never see him; that whatever we had is gone for good.” Patrick lifts up slightly, sighing gently and staring at Pete. “Actually, I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

“That's cool. You just wanna lay quietly?” Patrick feels the vibrations as Pete speaks and he shuts his eyes, wriggling closer and ignoring any niggling concerns about how _fucked up_ this set up is.

Patrick nods, but he doesn't say anything else, just waits for sleep to drown out the sadness.

 

They fall into a pattern of that. Pete sleeps in his own bed for a couple of days before spending a night with Patrick. Patrick sleeps dreamless those nights – guilty the next morning because there's two kids out there missing out on their father; a wife not seeing her husband because of him. He's a dick, the worst kind, but he's certain this isn't cheating. He thinks maybe he deserves this little bit of comfort right now.

Pete’s normally awake whenever Patrick stirs, but today Patrick can tell he's still asleep. They're curled up together, Pete up against Patrick's back. He's got a hand beneath Patrick's sleep-shirt, resting on the softness of Patrick's belly and it's warm and it's so fucking intimate and Patrick should pull away because even though they're not fucking, this still feels like more than it should be. 

Patrick's almost asleep again when he hears the sound of Penny stirring into a quiet bark and then he hears another dog yap back. Pete’s hand tightens around his waist, but he doesn't stir, not even when Patrick's bedroom door opens.

Patrick keeps his eyes shut, even when he feels the covers being lifted, but he gives up when he feels a finger poking between his eyes. He peeps them open to see Vicky laying next to him, staring at where Pete's arm is over his waist.

“It's not like that,” Patrick whispers, because it isn't, no matter what he tells himself. 

“Is that your boss?” she says softly, but not soft enough because Pete suddenly jolts and Patrick turns onto his back so that his side is against Pete's chest. Pete looks confused, and slightly traumatized when he sees a strange woman in Patrick's bed.

“Pete, this is Vicky. Vicky, this is Pete,” Patrick mumbles quietly. He feels like he's been caught out, but Pete mostly just looks confused.

“Vicky. The barmaid with the sex toy story?” Pete says slowly, looking to Patrick for confirmation. Patrick nods, before wincing when Vicky elbows him in the side.

“Sure. I came over because I needed to tell Patrick something, but if you guys are busy...” She lets it hang and Patrick stares up at the ceiling, feeling like someone awful. Pete mostly just lays stiffly beside him, before sitting up.

“I'm gonna take a shower and then call work, see if they've got any updates.” They're still tracking Larkson's movements, but they haven't tracked him to an apartment yet, to where he lives, but they're getting closer. There's been no more murders and Patrick doesn't think there will be anymore. He's getting the impression that Jake Jones was Larkson's final boy. He's not been back to the church, though. No more lit candles for his son, or his victims.

Patrick watches as Pete picks up his clothes from the night before and leaves the bedroom, heading to the shower. He bites his lip nervously awaiting Vicky's berating. He hasn't told her about how close he's gotten with Pete. They hang out on the nights Patrick's going to end up alone; they walk their dogs together in the park near Patrick's apartment, but he doesn't talk about Pete to her.

“So, was that a ring on his finger or was I imagining things?” Vicky says casually. Her long legs meet his in the bed, her knee knocking into him. Patrick feels bad – he feels awful.

“We don't have sex, or anything,” he starts a lame attempt at defending himself, but she gives him a flat stare, hair messy and dark over her shoulders. “It's not like that.”

“But he sleeps in your bed instead of his own. Married people shouldn't do that, not if they want to stay married,” Vicky muses aloud. “I'm not ragging on you, well I am a little bit, but only because I care.”

“He's the only reason I can sleep at night. I don't know why and I don't want to because it scares me, but that's all. We're just friends – like you and me.”

“I never fucked you.” Vicky warns him, which is true. Patrick would remember that. “You're not on my to-do list at all.”

“I guess not.” Patrick shrugs, and runs his hand through his hair. “I know this makes me an asshole.”

“Not an asshole, just really fucking stupid.” Vicky rolls up against him, teeth digging into his shoulder slightly. “C'mon. You'll hurt yourself if you keep this up, it's not healthy. Probably not for him either.”

“No, I know.” Patrick nods his head, staring up at the ceiling. Pete’s starting to like him, _really_ like him, and that scares Patrick a little. “I'll figure it out once the case has finished.”

“I know a way you can figure it out,” she says, and she's biting her lip, blue eyes wide beneath her heavy bangs. Patrick narrows his eyes, wondering what she's talking about when Pete wanders into the room, hair damp and dressed in his own jeans, but one of Patrick's plain t-shirts.

He looks at Patrick, not Vicky, and swallows thickly. “Patrick, there's been a tip-off.”

 

Patrick's barely had time to shower and dress before he's following Pete’s car to work. He didn't get to hear what Vicky was planning on telling him, but he's promised to call her later that night.

Patrick's cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt, listening to Pete brief everyone in the room. Larkson's been spotted visiting a bar downtown each night. Once the owner of the bar saw the footage they released of Larkson, he called the station right away.

“We've got him. We're bringing him in for questioning,” Pete says inside his office to Patrick, his face breaking our into a smile. It's pure relief that settles on Pete’s face and Patrick feels it sliding down into his own lungs.

“You think he'll confess?” Patrick asks, looking down when Pete tugs on his arm and drags him into an empty office. Patrick's pretty certain he will; he's not tried to make up for the fact he messed up Jones' murder, which Patrick takes as a clue that that kid was the last one. He's not said anything to Pete about it, doesn't want to unsettle his fragile ego further.

“I want you to do the interview,” Pete says quietly, looking Patrick up and down, hand going to Patrick's face. He rubs Patrick's cheek with the pad of his thumb and Patrick stares at him, waiting for him to explain further. “You look young; if we take your hat and glasses off, dress you a little better you'll look enough like his son, like all those kids he killed, it might trigger a reaction from him.”

 _“Trigger a reaction?_ You're not using me as bait. He's going to confess without it.” Patrick steps back, crossing his arms. Pete raises his hands in defense, pulling Patrick's elbows loose again, ignoring his last comment.

“Not bait.” Pete waves a hand. “Well _kinda_. Joe wanted to go with a full sting operation with you as the bait, but I'm pretty sure you'd fuck that up-- get yourself maimed or something.” Patrick would be offended, but he knows that's probably true so he stops glaring quite so much. “Seriously though. I don't wanna be tactless, but maybe you could psycho babble it out of him. If you think he's going to confess I don't see you having a problem with this.”

“'Psycho babble?' That's what you think I do?” Patrick feels nerves starting to spike at his stomach, he doesn't do interrogations; he's just there to find the patterns and the ideas behind each killing.

"You know what grief is like more than any of us, plus you do look a bit like his kid. You're good at calming freak-outs. Just look at me.” Pete smiles softly, his own nerves fraying openly on his face. 

“You're not a murderer,” Patrick points out, which he thinks is important. “It's different.”

“You can do it. You've probably done it before, this isn't anything new.” Patrick nods his head at Pete's assumption, but those were under different circumstances. Pete's hands are warm and a little rough curving over Patrick's face again, like he's trying to force some assertion into Patrick. “We know he did it, but we need a confession.” There's partial fingerprints, but even on the camera there's no definite evidence right now that can assure a harsh sentence.

“Alright. Fine,” he says after hesitating for a few more seconds. Pete gives him such a large smile that Patrick can't help but give one back. “I want someone in there with me and I want you to watch from behind the glass.”

“Of course. You fucking awesome little dude!” Pete leans forward and kisses Patrick on the mouth, looking shocked at his own actions before he shakes his head. “Uh. Joe and I are gonna go bring him in. We'll be back soon.” Patrick watches him leave, lips still feeling the touch Pete’s just left against them.

The whole office is buzzing with news that they're bringing Larkson in, and Patrick waits with them, thinking about how Pete kissed him and how they spend nights in bed together. Not fucking, but Patrick isn't sure if that makes it platonic or not. Mostly it makes his head hurt. 

_We've got the guy.... Got to interview him dressed like his son...sounds disastrous._ Patrick texts Vicky as he waits, thinking less that she's want to know and more that he's worried they left things on awkward terms and he wants to make sure she's still cool with him.

 _Don't get hurt, Patsy. I'm still at you place not leaving till we talk tonight. Not mad._ Patrick's glad she isn't mad, and tucks his phone away. Patrick listens politely to the banter hitting the room, half conversations that he's not in on; jokes he isn't aware of.

Pete comes swanning in an hour later, chest puffed out smugly. He swans over to Patrick once all the pats on the back have been bandied about. Patrick thinks they're celebrating too soon; it's too early to be acting like they've charged Larkson with this.

“Alright, he's been booked and we're setting him up in an interview room. You sure you're fine with this?” Pete asks, but Patrick nods his head. He hasn't planned his approach, but he doesn't know what kind of attitude Larkson will be giving off. He won't know until he's in there.

“Yeah it's fine.” Patrick backs away at Pete's approach, wincing when he simply plucks Patrick's hat off and tossing it to the desk, his glasses following in a gentler toss. 

“Take your cardigan off,” Pete says and Patrick challenges him for a few moments before nodding his head and dropping his sweater to the chair. Pete goes to his desk, pulling out a jar of hair gel, scooping it into his hands and smearing it into Patrick's hair. 

“Gross,” Patrick says, feeling and smelling the wet product greasing his hair up.

“Shut up. I've gotta make you look more with the times. Tuck your shirt in,” Pete says, hands playing through Patrick's hair, turning it into some flamboyant monstrosity that flops over to one side. Patrick does as he's told, stuffing his shirt's hem into his pants, feeling exposed around the middle. He smooths his hands over his hips and watches Pete wipe his hands off on a scrap of paper on the desk, before shrugging his leather jacket off. 

Pete hands over his jacket and Patrick pulls it on. It smells like Pete; fitting neatly over Patrick's wrists, warm from where it's been resting against Pete’s body. It feel wrong, even more so when Pete leans over and unbuttons Patrick's shirt, fingers brushing Patrick's throat for a few moments. Patrick swallows and looks away. 

“I've got some stuff I need to tell you,” Pete says quietly and Patrick looks away. 

“Not now—After,” Patrick warns, and Pete nods his head, agreeing for now. “Promise you'll stay behind the glass."

“I will,” Pete plays with the collar of his jacket that Patrick's wearing, tucking it down. “There's gonna be a cop on the door, and you'll stay on your side of the table at all times. He's cuffed too, so he can't get you.”

“At least he won't strangle me,” Patrick laughs drily and then nods his head, sobering up and feeling the heavy sharp beating of his heart. He likes the nerves; that he even has them over something other than a dead boyfriend is good news to him. “Okay, let's do this.”

Patrick ignores all comments that pass when he walks from the office to the interview room, particularly the slow easy laugh of Joe, which mostly warrants a middle finger from Patrick. Pete's hand remains tight to his shoulder and Patrick leans into him as they walk, trying to focus his brain onto the job ahead. 

“Can I have a glass of water?” Patrick asks, thinking on the spot. Pete nods when they approach the water filter around the corner, filling a plastic cup with it. “I've got this,” Patrick says, straightening and powering up his focus.

“Good luck, Rick. Remember to breathe.” Patrick nods at Pete, sucking in a breath and letting it go slowly.

Patrick knocks on the door of the interview room and a tall uniformed officer lets him in. Her eyebrows rise upwards at his new look; she must know him from around the station, but Patrick doesn't know her by sight.

Patrick looks briefly at Larkson, catching the double look he gets. He's a heavy-set man, but he looks tired and he looks done with it all. Patrick knows what that's like. 

“Mr Larkson. My name's—uh. I'm Patrick. You should. I mean—I'm here to ask you a few questions questions.” Patrick flashes a smile, placing the cup on the table before shoving his fingers between his knees. 

Patrick looks up to see Larkson raise an eyebrow. “You a cop, kid? You look too young.”

“I'm working with the police. They asked me to take this interview for them.” Patrick smiles, can almost sense everyone's eyes bulging from behind the glass; near enough hears the gasps when he slaps his hands on the table, knocking his cup of water over. _“Shit.”_

Patrick scrambles, tipping the plastic cup upright again, sitting back when the cop guarding the door comes over and calmly takes the cup away. She gives Patrick a cool look before going back to her post. Patrick doesn't say anything, listens as the dribble of spilled water starts to fall drop by drop onto the cheap, worn carpet.

“I'm pretty new to this job,” Patrick says quietly on a laugh. He smiles wide, his cheeks rounding with the expression. He touches his hair self-consciously, crunchy with Pete's hair gel. “I'm sorry about that.”

“They shouldn't have left you alone like this,” Larkson says. Patrick feels his eyes on his face; up at the coiffed blond hair and then down at his now-tight clothes. Patrick keeps his eyes wide, makes himself appear as youthful as possible; as inexperienced as he can.

“Learning on the job,” Patrick laughs, jolting his knees up and down. He taps his fingers on the tabletop, splashing the water slightly. “Okay, so you know why you were brought in I presume?”

Larkson looks tired of this all, and Patrick thinks he's going to be easy to break. He doesn't look to have fought the team when they arrested him, and he hasn't asked for a lawyer. He hasn't even questioned why Patrick's talking to him and not a real cop. Patrick thinks he can drop the cutesy naïve act he's been playing and go straight for it.

“Why did you kill those boys, _Brian_? Was it because they reminded you of your son?” Patrick goes for cool instead and Larkson looks up, catching Patrick's switch in personality. “They tried to pick you up and you went with it? Like your son picked up Liam Weller? It didn't end too well for him did it?”

“Shut up.” There's a threat behind the two words, but Patrick pays no heed to it, Larkson can't get him. Instead, Patrick leans forward, Pete's leather jacket falling into the puddle of water. 

“Look at me, Brian,” Patrick says, blinking slow and wide eyed, biting his lip softly, switching back to naïve again. “Imagine you and me in a club. I can play innocent like your son could.” Patrick lets the sweet look fall from his face as he sits back. “Or I can play dirtier.” Patrick spreads his legs in the chair, fingers dropping over his crotch, not rubbing, but he keeps his body wide and loose. “I think Jack could too.”

Larkson looks down between Patrick's legs, and then up at his face. He's turning red, like Patrick's making him uncomfortable. “My son was an innocent.”

Patrick nods his head, keeping eye contact with Larkson. He widens his eyes sweetly again, but keeps his legs open and pops his thumb between his front teeth, trying to fight off the feeling that he's being watched by Pete and a dozen other cops from behind the panel.

Larkson shakes his head, like Patrick's posture is physically hurting him. “My son was _innocent_. He was a child.”

“So were Jared and Freddie. Lenny Kluke was innocent, so was Jake Jones. They were all innocent kids too, they just had a sex life the same as Jack. They were good kids that happened to have a taste for older men. _Just like Jack_. Did you want to fuck those kids? Did you want to fuck your son?”

Larkson goes off at that, trying to launch at Patrick, who merely closes his legs when Larkson can do nothing but stumble into the table. Patrick pulls his hand away from his mouth, back to neutral, as Larkson composes himself. “I was a good dad...we were close. He studied hard and he got into college on a scholarship. He did all of that without his mother, God rest her soul.”

“I don't think God's too happy with _your_ soul right now, Brian. How many Hail Mary's will it take to escape the fire and brimstone?” Patrick crosses his legs, leans his elbows onto the table. He keeps eye contact, watches his every move, every flex of his trapped hands and flickering fingers. 

“I don't care for my own repentance...I care for my son.” Brian looks down, and Patrick sees all tension slip right away as his shoulders sag. Patrick knows the feeling well. “He took my son from me. First my wife then my child.”

“Those kids you killed, they all had parents just like you, they've all lost what you lost. You can't blame God for that, you can't get back at God for that,” Patrick says softly. He crosses his arms, watches the man across from him try and fail to keep it together, nostrils flaring as he tries to regulate his breathing. It's an ugly sight, but Patrick doesn't care. He stands up from his seat, stares openly at the glass panel in a one-sided challenge before he walks over to the other side and sits beside Larkson.

“I was so angry,” Brian says. He doesn't look at Patrick, but down at his own large hands, trapped in the metal cuffs to the table. “The first boy...Jared... he looked just like my boy, my son. He approached me, smiled at me-- he goddamn _flirted_ with me, a man old enough to be his father! I thought--I just, I thought maybe it was a chance to see my Jack; to see how others saw him.”

Patrick nods his head, staring at the cop on the door. She looks apprehensive about what they're about to hear. She probably didn't expect a confession this early on. “You didn't like what you saw?”

“I saw a boy playing at being a man and not caring about what he was doing...but I didn't plan it out. I just-- he trusted me, he wanted to--” Brian closes his eyes, face pinched and red. Patrick puts a hand to his shoulder, rubs at the broad shoulder under his fingers. “I wanted to see him die like my son did...in that moment I wanted to know what happened to Jack...what he looked like. So I did it.”

“With your belt? You strangled him with your belt?” Brian nods his head and then crumbles harder. Patrick confirms his nod to the tape in the room, keeping his hand on the man's shoulder. “Evidence shows that you cleaned him up; you scrubbed your prints from his body. That shows you knew what you were doing.”

“It was cold; I was wearing gloves that night...and I didn't touch him that way. I never put a hand on any of their bodies.” Larkson turns to Patrick, stares him in the eyes, like it's important that he knows he didn't rape them; like it makes it a little better. "I sought out the other boys...but they were so willing, and I just wanted to see my son. I could see him in them, every time."

“I know,” Patrick says, “but you still killed four boys; you took their lives from them and from their families. There's four sets of parents out there feeling as bereft as you, because of you. I'm pretty fucking sure they're not going to result to murder. That's on _you_ ; not God, not your grief. There's no one to blame but you.”

Brian laughs, it catches in his throat. “I take the blame. I wanted to be caught. After the third boy...the one with the crucifix, I knew I was done. God was done with me, and I was done with everything. Jack was everything, you don't understand. He was my world and I was destroyed through his own stupid mistake.”

Patrick knows what it's like to lose your world, but he doesn't talk about himself; doesn't sympathize with Larkson. “So you blame Jack for their deaths?”

“No, but if he'd just stayed good...” Brian shakes his head, like he doesn't believe his own words either. “I wanted to be caught, don't you see? The last boy, the one in the alley, it was a sign. It was a sign from God! I did it outside, I gave him no dignity, and I'm sorry for that. That was my last one and I've been waiting for the cops since then.”

“You wanted to get caught?” Patrick asks quietly, but he already knows the answer. He knew the moment he walked into this room that Larkson was over; was ready to face the consequences. “Prison isn't an easy way out, I hope you realize this.”

“There is no way out,” Brian says, watching Patrick stand up. His eyes are dark, red rimmed from tears and exhaustion. Patrick wonders if he looks that sad to everyone else. Patrick understands grief now, knows it's inescapable, but he doesn't understand Larkson and what he's done. He doesn't want to. “You're just a kid, you have no idea of the world.”

Patrick only laughs inside, doesn't let it show on his face. He looks blankly one last time at Larkson, and then files this case to the back of his mind, slotting it beside every other investigation he's worked on. “Thanks for your co-operation.”

Patrick feels drained when he leaves the room, but he's suddenly surrounded by cops congratulating him; some not looking him in the eye after the show he put on prior to the confession.

Patrick manages to shrug them all off but Pete, who throws an arm over Patrick's shoulder and tugs him into an empty room. “You are fucking amazing! I didn't know what you were doing at first, I thought you were just nervous, but that was an act, right?”

“Yeah, I wanted to confuse him,” Patrick says quietly and Pete nods his head. He looks flushed, his cheeks red and puffed up from smiling. He's won the case; lead it from the beginning without cracking _too much_.

“Man, I've seen good cop-bad cop, but never sweet and slutty cop. That was crazy, and uh, super uncomfortable to see in front of a dozen middle aged dudes.” Pete's smiling, his hand on Patrick's face. Patrick doesn't push him off, but he's so tired that he can't even think about how it makes him feel. “You're so beautiful, I'm like super close to falling in love with you,”

Patrick shuts his eyes at that, unsure of how to react; unsure of how he even feels about Pete. It's good when they're pretending it's nothing more than two guys helping each other out, but Pete has a wife and Andy is _dead,_ there's no escaping that. 

“Thank you for the compliment,” Patrick says after a few moments, tucking his hands into the pockets of Pete's jacket that he's still wearing. He should give it back; now is his chance, but he already feels so exposed, losing another layer would be too much.

“I didn't mean to say it out loud,” Pete says quietly, slapping a hand to his forehead. When he looks down at Patrick, his face softens slightly. “You look beat, Patrick. Go home to rest, but we're celebrating at the bar Joe and I took you to that time. Come down later, promise?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, nodding his head. “I'll see you later.”

Patrick leaves the room, feeling a little bit like he's in a daze. More people talk to him, and he finds himself in the office of the head of Homicide. Patrick thinks he's been offered a job looking over some cold cases they haven't been able to crack, but he's not sure. 

 

When Patrick finally gets back to his apartment, Vicky is still there. She's got one of Patrick's _Earth, Wind and Fire_ records playing. It's way too chirpy for Patrick's fragile state of mind, but he doesn't turn it off when he walks in, just leans down as he's attacked by two fluffy dogs.

“Rad hair, Patrick,” Vicky says and Patrick remembers he still looks however Pete styled him as. An anonymous blond twink in a river of the same. Patrick sighs, and grunts something about taking a shower.

He's feeling a little more human when he's out of the shower; his glasses, hair and clothes back to what he's comfortable with. Vicky's stabbing at one of the microwavable meals that Pete bought when he falls beside her on the couch. 

“I got a confession out of the guy, so the case is finished,” Patrick says to her, “I channeled my inner Sharon Stone at one point, which was weird. He admitted to everything though, so I guess it worked.”

“Oh congrats!” Vicky leans into him briefly, smiling at him through the steam of food in her lap. Once she's taken a bite and swallowed it down, she places the food on the coffee table and turns to look at him seriously. “There's something I need to tell you.”

“That sounds ominous,” Patrick says, wincing when she tugs at his chin. He pulls it from her grasp, getting her hands on his cheeks instead. “What's the matter?”

“My friend's going to Europe for two months and she wants me to house sit for her Florida,” Vicky says calmly. “I hate my job, so I said yes right away.”

“You're leaving?” Patrick doesn't like the idea of that. She's silly and she's sweet, and he likes her so much. He doesn't want to be left again, not so soon after Andy, and not when Pete's confessing all kinds of things to him.

“Yes, but I think you should come with me. I know you think it's alright what you're doing with your boss, but it's really not. You shouldn't hide your grief in some fucked up relationship. And now the case is more or less over, you're free.”

Patrick shakes his head, careful of long nails digging into his skin “It's not fucked up. It's just different.”

“You've slept with him.” She rolls her eyes and Patrick's really wishing he hadn't told her that part. He doesn't know why he told her in the first place; it's something he thinks should've stayed directly between Pete and himself.

“It was one time,” Patrick says quietly, but Vicky gives him another filthy look, pushing his face away and dropping it from her grip.

“It won't always be one time, come on. You'll do it again and again and he won't leave his wife and you won't love him properly because you're still unable to sleep in a bed alone without nightmares.” Vicky sounds like she's planning a future she's already lived, but it does sound shitty. Patrick doesn't want that to happen to his friendship with Pete.

“He's my friend,” Patrick insists quietly. “We're just friends and he really helps.”

“Maybe you should help yourself. Look, we'll go down there for six weeks, we'll drink too much, I'll fuck questionable dudes and you'll flirt with the barman to get our drinks reduced. And then you'll come back with a different perspective.”

Patrick snorts. “Sounds like I'd be coming back with a hangover.”

“That too, but I really think you need to find a new way to heal yourself, you know? I think you'll only get sadder if you stay here.” Patrick looks at her side-on, sees that she looks concerned for him, like she actually worries, and it just makes him feel bad.

“I know,” he sighs, relents, and decides to be impulsive for the first time in his life. “Maybe it's a good idea. I've never been to Florida.”

“It's great, you'll love it. But honestly, we need to pack you some shit up if you're coming. I've pulled some strings with a friend to get us a car. It'll be fucking awesome; you, me, Penny and Gizmo.”

“Right, okay. But like. I have to go to the bar tonight with the guys I've been working with, and I... It sounds like a good idea, but a terrible one too.” Patrick feels his heart start to race, and he tries to fight it, remembers to breathe in the ways Pete told him. He hears Andy's voice in his head again; that sweet soothing tone, trying to calm him down. He wonders what Andy would want him to do, but he doesn't know and he can never ask. “So okay. Tomorrow we go to Florida... It's a long way to drive. I don't think it's a good idea-- I should. I should stay here.”

“Shut up, there's nothing keeping you here. And yes, we're gonna wanna kill each other by the end, that's how long a drive it is. But fuck it, it'll be fun. It'll be a bonding experience, and we'll be in fucking Florida by the end of it so we won't fucking care,” Vicky shrugs, as if that's all there is to say on the matter. Patrick doesn't argue with her.

Patrick gets semi-tipsy on bottles of ready-made Piña coladas with Vicky for an hour or so before he leaves for the bar, making terrible sounding plans about what they're going to do in Florida. He's back looking like Patrick now, which is maybe frumpy and kind of librarian, but he feels comfortable and safe like this, even more so with Pete's leather coat on over the top.

Patrick finds himself wrapped up in side hugs; his hair ruffled by various cops who he barely recognizes at the bar. He hasn't really paid much attention to anyone in the investigation outside Joe or Pete, and he's embarrassed to realize he barely knows anyone's name outside of the circle.

He finds Joe first, who's delightfully wasted and full of long-harmed hugs for Patrick. “I knew it, dude! Knew when I first met you and your little dog that you'd do it for us!” Patrick smiles and accepts the beer Joe thrusts into his hand before he moves onto the next pat on the back. 

Eventually he finds Pete watching him from the corner of the bar. Patrick's head is spinning from the claustrophobia of the stuffed bar, and so when he points his finger at Pete and then to the side exit, he's glad to see him follow.

“So we did it,” Patrick says when they're out in the open. The crisp air takes away any tipsiness Patrick was feeling. He looks at Pete, who looks at Patrick dressed in his leather jacket, and then looks down at his feet.

“Yeah, we did it. Or you did it,” Pete says. It sounds more like he's drained and less about fishing for compliments. Patrick guesses he's to blame in part for that.

“We did it together. We both would've failed otherwise,” Patrick shrugs, and then looks at Pete, at the way he's looking at him. It's not lascivious anymore, but there's still want in his eyes. “So, I was debriefed by the boss after Larkson confessed earlier, turns out he wants to keep me on the payroll; wants me on some cold cases that need looking over.”

Pete’s eyes suddenly go hopeful. “So you're sticking around?”

“Yeah, but I'm going away first. I need to fix myself, need to heal a few of the wounds I've been carrying around.” Patrick looks down at his feet, feels the sadness stretching him thin to the bone. “I'm in love with a dead man. I think I probably always will be, and I need to learn to live with that.”

“So there's no room for anyone else in your life?” Pete sounds disappointed and Patrick hasn't forgotten what he said earlier, but Patrick can't think past waking up each morning and making it to the next night.

“You make it feel okay. When you're around I can sleep and I can breathe, but I feel like it's a crutch right now and that's not fair on either of us. You're forgetting something too.” Patrick leans over and taps the wedding band on Pete’s finger. “I won't be that person, not anymore. Maybe one day when I can be happy without masking the pain and maybe if you're divorced or separated it'll be different.”

“I know you're right, but it sucks,” Pete says quietly. Patrick finally raises his eyes to see the disappointment on Pete’s face, but Patrick's glad he isn't going to fight this; isn't going to end it on bad terms. “Where are you going?”

“Vicky's got a job house-sitting for her friend in Florida so we're gonna take the dogs. I need to get away from death for a while.” Patrick tucks his fingers around Pete’s, who doesn't pull away, he just squeezes Patrick's back. “This was decided, like, two hours ago, but I'm treating it like it's a good thing. Trying not to freak myself out.”

Pete nods his head, but then starts to frown, lips turning out into a petulant pout again. “I'll be really pissed if you meet someone down there.”

“I don't want to meet anyone. I just want to learn to sleep without needing a married man in my bed. I know it wasn't a sex thing, but it kinda was.” Patrick is still mostly embarrassed about the whole sex on the kitchen floor thing, he's not sure he'll ever get over it. He wonders briefly what Andy would have made of it all, but decides he doesn't want to know. “Then I'm going to come back and I'll be sun-burnt and hungover, but really ready to start working again. You could come over when I'm back and help me redecorate my apartment, you did a good job on my feature wall.”

“I did that for my own benefit; it set my anxiety off looking at that wall of sadness. If you don't come back in two fucking months I'm grabbing Joe and we're getting on a plane and dragging your ass back.” Pete shifts and Patrick laughs. He's glad they haven't lost this, even if Patrick's finished whatever they started.

Pete’s finger lands on Patrick's nose and he runs it up and down the straight bridge. Patrick stays still, going a little cross-eyed as he follows the movement, smiling softly when Pete gives him a sad look. 

“I'm going away until I can live down the shame of everyone seeing the way I behaved in that interview room,” he jokes, breaking the sadness and letting out a breath when he sees Pete crack a smile.

Pete just shakes his head. “No, it was crazy-funny. It was hot, actually, but you probably don't wanna hear that.” 

“We'll save it for another day,” Patrick says, he hovers awkwardly, still holding Pete’s hand, before he leans over and presses their lips together quickly. “I need to go. I just-- Fix your priorities whilst I fix myself, and we'll both be in a better place when I come back.”

“Well, I'm gonna miss your sleepy little face in the morning, I guess. I hope one day, you know,” Pete shrugs and Patrick nods in agreement. He sort of hopes one day too. “There's some bad people in Florida, Rick. Look after yourself.”

“Nah, I've got Vicky to protect me. She's, like, half a foot taller than me.” Patrick drops Pete’s hand and nods his head a few times, trying to assert himself “See you soon, I guess.”

Patrick walks back into the bar without looking back, ignoring the fact that he's still wearing Pete's jacket. He can have it back in a few months.

 

Vicky's got the car loaded up outside Patrick's apartment at eight thirty the next morning. The two little dogs bark from inside their carriers as Patrick throws his suitcase into the back, looking at the car wearily. This sort of feels like a terrible idea; but he's sort of excited.

“Whose car is this?” Patrick asks nervously. It's a powder blue vintage monstrosity. Patrick's not really a car guy, but this is some kind of Cadillac that he has no business driving.

“We've got, like, twenty hours of driving ahead of us, Patrick. We have to be cool about it.” She stands up, brushing her ass off and not bothering to answering his question. “Thelma and Louise style is the only way to do it.”

“Without the murder,” Patrick mutters in hope. He goes over to the passenger side and hovers for a few moments, thinking about whether to attempt a jump into the convertible or not. He decides to save that for another day and opens the door instead, watching Vicky climb into the other side. When he's buckled up, she looks over at him, smiling wide. 

“Ready for something new?” she asks and Patrick takes a deep breath before nodding his head. He's ready now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also thanks for not hating me for killing Andy. That was mean of me.


End file.
